


the growing up, the falling down

by joisattempting



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Angst, Budding Love, Camping, Child Abuse, Developing Friendships, Eating Disorders, F/F, F/M, Ghost Hunters, I mean, I’m sorry, M/M, Marvin’s Tragic Backstory, Prom, SHIT’S ABOUT TO GO D O W N, THIS IS THE EXCUSE I’M USING TO WRITE MARVIN’S TRAGIC BACKSTORY, Texting, Theatre, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, a lot of it, can we all stan anne-marie brown pls and thank you okay bye, charlotte just moved to ny for senior year, i forgot to tag this earlier i’m sorry, is this a bad idea? probably skfnsbdh, marvin & mendel & whizzer are in fiddler on the roof, nobody’s together yet, pls give this a chance i promise it’s better than the tags suggest, slow burn relationships, smh nothing came up when i spelled it with a u 😤, sorry jason you’re not in this, sorta - Freeform, they all live on the same street, trans mendel but he came out in sophomore year, whizzer has too many siblings, whizzer is a gluttonous fuck and nobody can take that away from me, whizzer’s mother is an iconic legend, yeah um
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 43,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23546395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joisattempting/pseuds/joisattempting
Summary: strap yourselves in, because the tight-knit family are in high school. get ready for chaos, self conflict, and a shitload of teen angst.(prev. "huh wowie it's a high school au")
Relationships: Dr. Charlotte/Cordelia (Falsettos), Trina/Mendel Weisenbachfeld, Whizzer Brown/Marvin
Comments: 326
Kudos: 157





	1. the new kid on campbell street

**Author's Note:**

> oops  
> so,,, i may have took a TEENSY bit of a hiatus. i’ve had this really bad burnout lately, and writing just felt out of the question for me. so, starting a new project is probably the worst idea ever. but am i going to do it anyway? only if y’all want this to continue lmao. if it does, i can’t promise how frequent updates will be, so i’m sorry in advance. nevertheless, i hope i can get out of my slump soon, so i can work on this and the housemates au. i hope everyone is safe and well in these trying times, i’m sending all the love <33
> 
> i hope you enjoy this and it makes a shred of sense fksjdbd, i think writing this au could be really fun!

“Whizzer, stop it!” Trina Aronowitz yelped, throwing her arms up to shield her grinning face from the cold, piercing jets of water spewing from her friend’s yellow watergun. 

That day was a memorably bittersweet one. When sand-riddled flip flops were sorrowfully cast into the dark depths of the closet, only to be replaced with either spanking new sneakers, or grimy, ancient ones with broken laces and soles that clung with fear to the bottom by a straining thread. When frenzied families raced to the nearest accessible Target to snag forgotten, last-minute supplies. And when the children of Campbell Street, Rochester, congregated at the house of Cordelia Thompson, for one final taste of sweet liberty. 

August twenty-fourth. The last day of summer break. 

To all five, the idea of spending their last year on their beloved road before parting ways and disbanding their close-knit group as each of its members scattered like sprinkles across the country for college, seemed bizarre. Frankly, the thought had barely crossed their minds. Company had always been a mere two-minute stroll away. One could never feel truly “alone” on their street, particularly not when your neighbours were bellowing the answers to the math homework to one another from their windows. It had never really occurred to them that their blissful childhood utopia of impromptu gatherings and movie nights could, very plausibly, be drawing to its forlorn conclusion.

But those depressing thoughts could be saved for the ceiling, when the soon-to-be seniors allowed alarming worries pertaining to the day that loomed ahead to fill their minds, as midnight inched ever closer. For now, there were popsicles to suck on, and watergun wars to triumph in. 

“I’ll save you, fair maiden!” Mendel Weisenbachfeld cried, plugging his nose as he plunged into Cordelia’s pool, spraying water in everyone’s direction.

Cordelia flicked her floppy straw hat from her eyes, giggling as she sipped on achingly-cold lemonade and observed her eccentric friend’s antics. Strangely enough, the final day of summer break claimed the title of her favourite. Of course, it brought her immense pleasure to visit family in Westchester with her parents and timid, college-aged older brother, but there was something about the day before school’s beginning that filled her with tingling excitement. The thrilling feeling of time flying past her, the bloom of warmth in her chest as she watched her friends relish in the remnants of their freedom. She held these pool parties for the same four people every year, and yet the gratitude she felt to be acquainted with such fascinating, assorted, caring personalities never faded as she grew. 

“Is this some kind of Lord of the Rings shit?” she laughed, abandoning the towel she sat on to join quiet, skinny Marvin Feldman at the edge of the pool, and dip her yellow-painted toes inside the water with him.

Whizzer lowered the watergun. “I’m not a nerd like Mendel and Marv, but I know for a fact that nobody ever used a gun in those movies,”

“They were books first, you cretin. But if we were all Lord of the Rings characters, which ones would we be?” Mendel piped, shaking the droplets of water from his shaggy, black curls. He draped an arm around Trina, who smiled as she leaned into his embrace. “I’d be Frodo,”

Marvin chuckled, kicking water in Whizzer’s direction. “The only similarity you have to him is your hair,” he said. “But unlike you, Frodo has stamina,”

Almost slipping on the concrete, Mendel opened the drinks cooler. He scowled darkly, sipping at an icy Coke. “I have stamina!”

“Yeah, okay, Mr Level Four In The Pacer Test,”

“That was  _ two years ago-” _

“Is someone moving in?” Whizzer’s voice came suddenly, putting a stop to Mendel and Marvin’s squabbling. Bewildered and intrigued, the others turned their heads in the direction the boy was pointing in. To their surprise, a U-Haul was parked outside the single remaining available house on their street. Three people bustled about outside in the intense summer heat, dragging boxes of varying sizes inside the house. The five stood in thoughtful, contemplative silence. For so long, everything about Campbell Street had been the same, and this new change evoked an unsettling feeling of uneasiness in them. 

“That house has been empty for aeons,” Mendel mused, scratching his head.

“C’mon. Let’s not be shitty neighbours and go say hi,” Trina said, tearing her gaze away from the U-Haul and pulling her beach dress over her tankini. For years, she’d envied Cordelia’s botanical, brightly-coloured bikinis, but her request was promptly turned down when she begged her mother for a pair of her own. Now that she would soon be entering her senior year, Frieda Aronowitz and her daughter had compromised, and the pair went shopping for an appeasing, yet unobtrusive two-piece. 

A cheerful voice perked up the ears of Charlotte DuBois, and she lifted her head. Running towards her were a gaggle of shouting teenagers, all five of which sported swimwear and genial smiles. Remembering the realtor’s words about the families that lived in the other identical-looking houses, a myriad of butterflies began to settle in her stomach. It seemed they all knew each other inside and out - if Charlotte didn’t make a decent first impression, she’d be Campbell Street’s unwanted outcast - just like she had been back down South. 

“Hey!” the voice called out to her, belonging to a slender girl with sopping blonde hair and a pastel-yellow, spotted bikini. One hand absently fiddling with the Star of David necklace her mother had gifted her for her last birthday, Charlotte offered her a shy half-smile. “Are you just moving in?”

“Uh-huh,” the newcomer said. The others could hear traces of a Southern lilt in her words. Gentle brown waves were glued to her head with sticky perspiration. Her oversized red shirt appeared to have her previous school’s logo printed on it, though it was barely visible underneath the hundreds of names of kids that had begged to sign it before she left. “We just came up here from Alabama,”

“Down South? That’s pretty cool. I’m Cordelia, but you can call me Dee, if you want,” the blonde said, nodding earnestly. She pointed down the sidewalk to the first house. “I live down there,”

“You going to Highland Ridge?” Whizzer piped, after a flurry of introductions. “We’re seniors there,”

Charlotte nodded. “I guess it’ll be reassuring to know a couple people in a school full of strangers. Does everyone walk around in their swimsuits here?” she questioned, cracking a smile. 

“Oh, yeah,” Marvin said with a sardonic grin, pushing his glasses further up his nose with the back of his suspiciously-thin wrist. “It’s a fucking swimsuit party on this street,”

“Noted,” she responded, equally trenchantly. For a fleeting moment, her and Marvin locked eyes. Both felt an immediate sense of respect - they seemed to understand the sarcastic mannerisms of each other. 

Trina blew her bangs from her eyes, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead. “If you want, you can come back down to Dee’s pool with us? I mean, we’ll be together all day. We do it every year, as a sort of goodbye to summer break,”

“We can help with the boxes, too, if you want,” Mendel said, playing with the strings on his corgi-themed trunks. 

“You’re 5”2 and wearing corgi swim trunks,” Marvin flicked the back of his head, to his vexation. “Need I say more?”

“Can you not slander me for five minutes?”

“I've gotta help my parents unpack, but I'll ask if I can come over in a little,” Charlotte said apologetically, balancing a hefty cardboard box on her knee. “Thanks for inviting me,”

Nonchalantly, Cordelia waved her hand, adjusting her hat with the other. “It’s nothing. We’re just down the street if you need us,”

“Papa, where’s my bathing suit?” she asked after heading inside, hanging up a photo of their three-person family. 

Walter DuBois gave his daughter a sidelong glance. “I think it’s in one of the suitcases upstairs. Why?”

“The neighbours invited me over. Can I go?” 

“Sure. You can go ahead now, actually,” the man smiled. “We’re just about done with all the boxes,”

Beaming, Charlotte threw her arms around her father, who stumbled slightly at the force of his child’s hug. Her mind racing, she took the stairs two at a time, and nearly turned her new, unfurnished room upside-down in pursuit of her swimsuit. Tugging the fifties-themed one-piece over her thighs and torso, Charlotte surveyed the drab, bare walls and musty hardwood. Her room was a blank canvas, practically pleading to be painted on with memorabilia and souvenirs. Just like this new, strange life in upstate New York. Her imagination soon ran wild with all the photos she could tack to the walls, and the miscellaneous knick-knacks that would sit with pride on the shelf her father had installed for her. As she lay on the hardwood and smiled up at the ceiling, Charlotte vowed to make the most out of their situation. 

The realisation that she’d be late if she continued to stare at the ceiling brought her back to reality. Scrambling to her feet, she pulled on her shorts and shoved her leaver’s shirt over her head. After accumulating a towel and an aged baseball cap, Charlotte shouted her goodbyes to two bemused parents, and was soon sprinting at lightning speed down the sidewalk. 

Exhaling heavily, she began to fumble with her necklace again as she rang Cordelia’s doorbell. She couldn’t wait for all the new adventures that living up north would certainly bring.

  
  


_ fin.  _


	2. seniors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the first day of senior year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!!! so it’s 4 in the morning and i just finished this, because i had a spontaneous burst of energy at around one. writing a oneshot always takes me forever because i always get distracted lmao. for some reason, this one feels weirdly long to me, but i hope it’s good nonetheless! anyway, i’m going to bed now, so i hope you like this and it isn’t uh terrible dkndbdbd
> 
> comments and kudos are really appreciated!!! y’all don’t know how happy i get reading them <33

A distant, impatient honking roused Whizzer from his peaceful slumber. Doing his best to ignore the pleads and protests from his fatigued body to go back to bed, he struggled to adjust to the blinding beams of white sunlight spilling through his abnormally-large windows and onto the stained carpet in his previously-shared bedroom (the younger of his two older brothers had gone off to college when he was a sophomore). Briefly, he pondered the reason why there was a car horn assaulting his ears at an hour that could surely be too early to be functioning, or why his mother was screeching his humiliating full name from downstairs. 

“Andrew Mason, get your ass downstairs, you’re going to be late!”

An alarmed look of unfortunate realisation creeping onto his face, Whizzer’s glance flickered over to the alarm clock on the bedside table. Seven thirty. Frantically combing his fingers through his unkempt chestnut locks, the boy wracked his brains. What could possibly be so important on a Monday morning, that he’d have to rise at seven thirty? 

That was when the last piece of Whizzer’s panicked mental puzzle clicked into place. 

School. Senior year. Shit. 

The car horn was Cordelia’s mom, who waited in the carpool with his neighbours. His mother was yelling at him because Jesus Christ, he was going to be late on his first day if he didn’t make haste. 

Leaping out of bed like the worst Olympic vaulter on the planet, Whizzer snatched up the outfit he’d chosen the previous evening, and located his baseball letterman jacket from the untidy, disorganised closet. He made a beeline for the bathroom, the extremely soothing morning soundtrack of Mrs T’s car and his mom’s shrill voice never seeming to cease. Inside, he tugged on one of his numerous pastel-pink shirts, his letterman, and the pair of high-waisted jeans he was heavily advised to never wear to school again by both his father and the principal. Grabbing a pair of well-worn shoes and his backpack, he thundered down the stairs. 

Skidding to an abrupt halt in the kitchen doorway, he was met with his mother glaring daggers at him with her arms outstretched, the sleeves of her maroon sweater shoved hastily up to her elbows. At the kitchen table was his father, who looked just about as tired as he was, munching quietly on plain toast while skim-reading that day’s newspaper. Dangling loosely from her grip were two paper bags, one with his name neatly penned on the front, and the other with Marvin’s. It had become tradition for the Browns to provide the boy’s lunch after the fiasco back in elementary school, involving his mother’s questionable parenting methods. To this day, nobody really understood what was happening over at the Feldmans’ house, although they all collectively agreed that it couldn’t be anything good. 

“Your breakfast’s in there, too. I knew you’d oversleep. Happens every year,” she said, nodding towards the brown paper bag with her son’s name. Her expression softening, Anne-Marie cracked a smile. “Have a good day, honey. Pay attention,”

His father Adam looked up from the paper, a playful twinkle in his hazel eyes. “I don’t want any more emails telling me that you spelled ‘insect’ as ‘incest’,” 

Whizzer blushed a striking scarlet, glaring pointedly in his direction. Snatching the bags his mother still held, he sprinted out the blue-painted front door, memories of that scarring spelling mistake flashing across his vision. Dyslexia was a handful a lot of the time. 

Caroline Thompson’s carpools were an interesting experience, to say the least. Every morning, she went through the horror of driving her eccentric daughter and her rowdy friends to the local high school in her cramped Infinity SUV. One could never know what to expect on these trips - occurrences ranged from ten minutes of incessant singing of Country Roads, to a dramatic and loud reenactment of a Hamlet scene that someone had pulled up on Sparknotes. So, Whizzer wasn’t entirely too surprised to find Cordelia, dressed like she’d just waltzed out of an eighties exercise ad, shouting the lyrics to Physical while video calling her perplexed older brother, who lived in an apartment complex with Whizzer’s brother Kevin, and his Mormon missionary friends. 

“Does this happen often?” Charlotte asked  from the furthest of the three rows in the SUV. Beside her were Trina, who pored over the pages of Dickens’  _ Great Expectations  _ with her headphones in, and seemed completely oblivious to everything happening around her, and Mendel, who wore jeans with his pajama shirt, and snoozed soundly on Trina’s shoulder. 

Whizzer grinned at her. “With Dee, you never really know,” he shrugged. “Here’s your lunch, Marv,”

“Thanks,” he muttered, placing the bag beside his backpack and silently praying that the taller boy hadn’t heard his stomach’s audible growling. “You don’t have to keep doing this, you know,”

“Don’t sweat it,” Whizzer said around a freezer waffle. “Is Mendel wearing his pajama shirt to school?”

Digging into the paper bag, Marvin produced two granola bars, and immediately unwrapped the first. “I don’t know why you’re surprised,”

In the nick of time, the group managed to make it into the building before the piercing peal of the school bell. As though they would never cross paths again, they said forlorn goodbyes, before parting ways for the beginning of a new year of unpredictable chaos. 

“And then, he sets a fucking three-page paper. Who sets an essay on the first day?” Mendel rambled at lunch, his peanut butter sandwich lying forgotten atop the wrinkled scrap of tinfoil his mom had packaged it in. 

“Shit, Bowery did you guys dirty,” Cordelia said, picking at her lunch-line lasagna. 

“Did you guys see? They announced the school musical,” Mendel piped, resuming the ingestion of his sandwich. He’d been participating in theatre productions since middle school - his logic being that he was unable to play an instrument, so marching band was therefore ruled out, and the baseball team would certainly laugh at his jokingly sub-par athletic skills. Surprisingly, his peers hadn’t jeered and poked fun, but attended his shows for support and helped him run his lines. There were moments where he felt immense gratitude towards his neighbours - one had been their endless support following coming out as trans two years ago, and their quick adjustment to his choice of name and different pronouns, and another was their reaction to his choice to pursue theatre. “It’s Fiddler. Which is, like, the most Jewish show out there,”

“It was meant to be, ‘Del,” Marvin laughed. “I’m auditioning this year. Yolo, and all that shit,”

“Do us all a favour and never say that again,” Whizzer deadpanned. 

Rolling his eyes at the two boys’ exchange, Mendel swivelled clumsily in his seat to face Trina, who was scribbling something down in her hefty spiralled notebook. “Hey, Trin, your mom gonna let you do the show this year?”

Forlornly, Trina shook her head. “I’m sorry. She has this crazy idea that I’m gonna get into NYU. She’s been on my ass about it all summer,”

“I mean, it’s not that crazy. You’re, like, one of the smartest people we know,”

“I hear wedding bells,” Cordelia said dreamily, smirking at Mendel, who lunged for her across the table. Trina reeled him in by the scruff of the wrinkled pajama shirt he’d worn to school. 

“I’m going to sue your ass, Cordelia Thompson,” 

“That’s the third time you’ve said that today,” Trina pointed out. “Jesus, that’s a lot of lawsuits,”

Nervously, Charlotte laughed. “On that lovely note, should we get to Home Ec?” She’d been told the story of how her new friends took the elective together every year, and infuriated their poor teacher to no end, all the while learning valuable life lessons. 

“I can’t wait to see Simmons again,” Whizzer grinned devilishly, discarding his paper bag in the trash. The knowledge that Marvin hadn’t gone hungry like he had in the past comforted him slightly, but there was a suspicious aura about his ever-thinning friend. 

“I missed Home Ec,” Marvin mused, as they shouldered their backpacks and departed from the lunchroom. 

“Me too,” Mendel agreed, unceremoniously stuffing his schedule into his run-down backpack; a hand-me-down from his eldest brother, Elijah. The straps were showing their first signs of fraying, and the bottom was on the verge of collapsing, but it got the job done nonetheless. “I’m so ready for another year of stabbing my fingers with sewing needles,”

  
  


_ fin.  _

  
  



	3. four-eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whizzer goes through some self-esteem issues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i really meant it when i said updates would be infrequent lmao
> 
> hello! i’m so sorry for the wait, my motivation has been fluctuating again lately. this took me twice as long as it should have, primarily because i wanted to write it better than i had the past two fics of this series. i love this au so much, and i want to write it well for y’all, i just need time :)
> 
> anyway! i hope you like this! any comments or kudos make me genuinely happy, they’re very much appreciated <3

“Whizzer, wait!”

Whizzer ducked into the shabby men’s room, hot tears threatening to spill down his flushed cheeks like gushing, frothy water down a fall. Out in the hall, merciless students pushed and shoved, knocking one another against lockers or the scuffed linoleum floor without a shred of remorse as the bell’s harsh peal signified the beginning of second period. Congestion was commonplace during this particular passing period, especially so in the Chemistry hallway, home to the filthiest toilet in the high school. None of the restrooms at Highland Ridge were particularly clean, but it was collectively agreed that this one took the cake by a long shot, with its rusty, broken sinks and blasphemous graffiti on the stalls. Throwing his ragged backpack on the cracked cream tiles, Whizzer slunk against the wall, drawing his knees up to his chest and leaning his forehead against them, in order to shield his face from view; baseball players didn’t cry. He didn’t bother to lift his head when someone burst through the door. 

“Whiz?” a soft Boston accent called.

The goosebumps that attacked every nook and cranny of his lanky body was the only clue Whizzer needed to know it belonged to Marvin. Ignoring the plethora of butterflies flitting about his stomach, the baseball pitcher scrubbed harshly at his swimming, red-rimmed eyes and lifted his head. Silence briefly filled the bathroom as the pair locked eyes. Marvin looked disheveled, in the most endearing, strangely-enticing way. His curly mop appeared as though it had never come into contact with a comb for the entirety of his seventeen years of existence. Textbooks and numerous sheafs of wrinkled papers spilled from his satchel, to the extent that the top flap was unable to close over the objects overflowing from the spacious inside. His pinched and freckled face looked alarmed, round brown glasses askew, and Whizzer felt so guilty he began to sob again. 

Marvin gasped quietly, slipping his satchel off his shoulder and perching himself on the flimsy sink. “Hey, it’s alright. What’s wrong?” 

“I can’t do it, Marv. They’re all gonna bully me again,” 

“What the fuck are you talking about? Whizzer, you’re one of the most popular guys in this shithole. Everyone either wants to be friends with you, date you, or be you,” the bespectacled boy muttered, eyebrows knit together slightly. It wasn’t a lie. When his friend wore that green-and-gold letterman jacket, he was untouchable. Young freshmen admired him. Girls, ranging from the fourteen-year-olds just transitioning from eighth grade to the intimidating seniors that had allegedly been held back, lusted after him (and were secretly disappointed after his coming out). Nobody in their right mind, or at least nobody Marvin knew, would think to lay a finger on the baseball team’s star pitcher. The boy who, promptly after making the team, increased their number of wins by tenfold. Who began the district-famous winning streak, the one that sent shivers down the spines of every neighbouring school. And what the fuck did Whizzer mean by ‘again’? 

Wordlessly, he fished a sleek navy case from the very bottom of his backpack. It looked suspiciously like one used to store a pair of glasses, and it was then that Marvin began to understand what this was all about. His friend’s reputation meant the world to him, but more importantly, it was as fragile as a china plate. Something as insignificant and mere as a pair of glasses could tarnish it for possibly the short remainder of his high school career. Marvin knew his friend better than he knew himself, and Whizzer didn’t exactly respond well to criticism, so God knew how shitty he’d feel if thousands of kids sniggered as he trudged down the hall to the Honours English class he was barely passing, or talked behind their hands with the occasional mocking glance in his direction. He knew the feeling - he’d experienced it himself for years, after all. By the time sophomore year rolled around, Marvin didn’t flinch when jocks slammed him into lockers, and was numb to the near-silent chuckles when the Health teacher weighed them on her scale of shame. His mom had taken care of it, although she didn’t exactly think the fault was in the hands of his classmates, but Marvin himself. 

Running a hand through his tangled curls, the Bostonian snapped open the case. Inside were a pair of glasses, round-rimmed and brown and uncannily similar to the ones he wore at that moment. “Is this what you were worried about?” 

The taller boy’s cries were audible now, no longer silent tears, but pained, choking sobs. “I-I know I shouldn’t c-complain,” he began, the words coming out stammered and shaky, so unlike his usual boisterous, confident tones. “‘Cause you’ve had worse. But it took ‘em forever to shut up about my dyslexia, and now they’re gonna tell me I look like a fucking idiot,” 

Simply thinking about it made Whizzer wince. Emails from his flummoxed Honours English teacher in freshman year clogged his mother’s inbox, every letter warning her that her son was falling behind in his classwork. At first, they angered her; for weeks she’d punished him by sending him up to bed without dinner (a queer sanction, but it worked) until the situation was rectified. Ninth grade came and went, and the issue persisted. She was still being shamefully presented with angry red D’s on test papers with an amount of crosses that could rival those on a pirate’s map. Eventually, after many a sleepless night of tugging out her hair in worry for her son, the solution came to mind. Word travelled fast at Highland Ridge after the results of the dyslexia evaluation came back positive, and, needless to say, things started to go downhill from there. When it finally began to die down after his rise to popularity upon joining the baseball team, Whizzer vowed to never allow himself to be scrutinised again. 

“They really aren’t as bad as you think,” Marvin said, scrambling to his feet to fetch a few scratchy paper towels for his friend to wipe his eyes with. “Yeah, they’re the biggest inconvenience on the planet, especially when they fog up or you get rain on them, but millions of people wear them. Fuck, they even sell fake ones for the people that think they’re edgy,” 

At this, Whizzer chuckled, snivelling. “Courteney used to wear those,” he said, fondly remembering when one of his older sisters went through what the Browns affectionately called the ‘Claire’s Phase’. 

“Dee told me. Did anyone actually believe her?” 

“Not even ten-year-old me,” 

“Holy shit, that’s gotta say something,”

“Fuck you,” 

By now, the pair were fifteen minutes late to their second-hour classes, but neither seemed to mind. Sighing, Marvin unfolded the arms of the glasses in the box. He shot his friend a hopeful look, holding the spectacles out. “At least try them on. You can take them off afterward, promise,” 

Smirking, Whizzer playfully rolled his eyes, straightening up so he could see his reflection through the cracked mirror. He shoved them onto his face, stopping in his tracks on sight of the boy staring back at him. Weirdly enough, he didn’t totally despise him. “Fuck. These don’t look half bad,” 

“We look like the twins from  _ The Shining _ ,” the other boy remarked, grinning. “Just off the record, I think it’s cool we match,” 

“You know what? You’re not wrong,” Whizzer mused, a new confidence surging through his body. It might seem cringeworthy to an outsider, but not to him. Not anymore. And really, that was what mattered. Picking up his backpack from the ground, he held out his arm. “Shall we?”

Marvin looped a skinny arm through the baseball player’s. “We shall,” 

  
  


_ fin.  _

  
  
  



	4. on the grind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the gang host a midterm study session.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, and happy ramadan! to all y’all that are fasting, i believe in you! we’re in this together :)
> 
> i’m not very good at posting regularly, and i’m so so sorry, but i figured the only way to get back into the swing of writing is to keep going, no matter how hard it is. so, i’m going to make a conscious effort to write more frequently for y’all. i actually quite like this one, even if it’s a bit long, and i had a lot of fun with it, so i hope you like it too :)
> 
> comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! they make me insanely happy <3
> 
> tw: child abuse (at the end), implied eating disorders

“I have a question for Louisa May Alcott,” Cordelia said indignantly, pressing her hands together like it would further enforce her argument. School had let out for the day, and the dreaded midterm week was fast approaching. Somehow it felt as though the group hadn’t conversed for a lengthy amount of time; they scarcely caught sight of one another during lessons (save for the ever-anticipated Home Ec), and each of them chewed on pens in thought and penned meticulous notes for their respective subjects at lunch, working in diligent silence. To rid themselves of their loneliness, as well as for study company, they decided to do a six-way group call. “What possessed her to think that killing Beth was a good idea?”

Mendel rubbed his eyes. He’d been copying Newton’s laws into a scruffy notebook for hours at that point, and the only thing he wanted was to descend into a dark, bottomless pit of undisturbed slumber. Ever since his oldest brother had snagged a place at Yale’s Economics program, his mother had been dead set on getting the remainder of her family into Ivy schools, and that meant A’s. A lot of them. For Mendel, someone famously average at everything he did, that was a difficult feat. “The plot?  _ Something _ interesting had to happen in that book,” 

“You have to give it to her, though. It’s not as hard to understand as other classics,” Charlotte attempted to reason, twisting at a button on her denim jacket. “Looking at you, Dickens,”

“Fuck Dickens,” Marvin agreed. 

From her corner of the screen, Trina chuckled and shook her head, looking up from her English notes. She blew her bangs from her eyes, sticking her pen behind her ear. Mendel’s insides churned. “Little Women wasn’t boring, ‘Del. It gives us all an insight to how hard it was during the Civil War, and how we need to keep hoping and learn to mature,” she sighed, like the hidden message behind the book was the most obvious thing in the world. “Don’t you agree, Whizzer?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know, Trin,” he shrugged. “I am but a mere Honours student, unlike you AP elites,”

“Bow down to us, peasant,” Cordelia sneered, and Whizzer blew a raspberry at her. “We should get together,”

“I dunno, Dee,” Charlotte piped. “We’ve all got shit to focus on,”

Tugging the hood of his jumper over his head, Marvin slumped forward, resting his chin in his bony hand. Call him crazy, but Whizzer was fairly certain that the very sweatshirt he wore, the one that reached his thighs, the one that he’d have to roll up three times for access to his hands, didn’t fit him in the slightest two years ago. “I kinda want to get out the house for a bit,” 

“See? Marvin cares about his friends,” Dee quipped. “Bring your books with you, and meet me at the fence around my house. We’ll go to Starbucks in Whizzer’s car,”

“When did we decide that?”

“Just now,”

They congregated at the pompous white picket fence surrounding the Thompsons’ large swimming pool, which was currently covered by a mesh net, Whizzer’s sleek convertible in tow. From the day he’d been gifted it for his sixteenth, the others had begged for him to drive them all to school in it. But after his mother refused, they settled for Caroline’s SUV. The ride to the coffee shop was a short one - it was a simple matter of driving down the hill, turning left, and going straight. Each of them took turns with the AUX cord, the songs reflecting their personalities rather fittingly. After Trina’s lighthearted, soft song that featured a lot of guitar, Cordelia’s upbeat eighties headbanger, Marvin’s depressing indie song, Charlotte’s alternative rock, Mendel’s strange saxophone jazz, and Whizzer’s old-timey ballad, the car pulled up outside the Starbucks. 

Trina sauntered sleepily up to the barista, who looked like she’d rather be doing anything but making drinks at that point in her life, while the others searched the shop for a table. In the end, after much shuffling and moving of chairs, the other five managed to put together a table that seated the entirety of their six-person group. Having a half-dozen people in your circle of friends could prove trying sometimes, but they wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“You’re gonna have to help me with English, Char. These character analysis fuckers will be the death of me, I swear,” Cordelia sighed, as Trina arrived back at the table, with seven drinks, plus Whizzer’s cookie and her croissant, on a tray. “How do you know so much about Little Women?” 

“We were already studying it back home. We did a lot of work on Laurie, but I know jack shit about all the others,” Charlotte said, grinning as she flipped through her notebook to her scrawled notes on the characters. “You want to get in on this, Trina?”

“Sure,” 

Internally, Cordelia felt unenthusiastic about her joining in. Strange - she’d always been inclusive of everyone. Why was it only now that she wanted to be alone, and why with a certain Southerner who’d moved here that summer? 

Whizzer frowned, sipping at his cold brew. “I still don’t get it,”

“I’ve explained it, like, four times. Maybe paying attention would help,” Marvin quipped back, although he was trying very hard to fight back a smile. 

“Whiz, it’s Newton’s Third Law, it really isn’t-”

“I’m dyslexic, Mendel, shut up,”

“Shit, yeah. I’m sorry,”

Whizzer smiled goodnaturedly. “It’s fine. Clearly I’m smart enough that people are forgetting,”

That time, the boy from Massachusetts really did crack a smile. Raising his eyebrows, he slurped his water. A typical iced coffee contained sixty calories, and he gained pretty quickly. None for Marvin. His mom would… he didn’t want to think about what his mom would do if he got heavy again. 

He felt his old, beat-up phone buzz in his pocket. Speak of the devil. 

Fingers trembling as he dug out the vibrating device from his jeans, Marvin chewed anxiously on his lip as he pressed the answer button with reluctance. Conversation between the girls stopped, and they glanced up at him, wearing identical looks of concern. Mendel and Whizzer appeared grave, and their tangent on the correct way toilet paper was supposed to face died down. Their keen, frightened faces only perturbed the boy further, and he promptly shuffled out of the steamy shop. 

It was just his mom. He could do this.

“Hi, Mom,” he began, and immediately flinched at her angry voice. “Okay. I’ll be there soon. Bye,”

“I gotta go,” he muttered when he got inside.

Whizzer got to his feet to help him pack up, handing Marvin a stack of textbooks that looked to be on their last legs. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Marvin said, a little too quickly. “Mom wants me home. Just off the record, Whiz, tell Mrs Anne-Marie I say thank you for making lunch for me, but she doesn’t have to anymore,” And, on that perplexing sentence, the boy scurried out the door, the entrance bell chirping cheerily in his wake. 

Running his hands through his hair in confusion and apprehension, Whizzer flopped back into his seat. He dropped his head into his hands. He could feel the cogs whirring and crunching at the back of his mind - nothing made any sense. He’d seen him either pick at his food at the lunch table, or devour it like it was his last meal on earth. The snacks provided at Cordelia’s pool parties went untouched by him. Dinners with the Browns were always hesitantly refused. And what was that comment about his mom’s lunches all about?

“Something’s up,” Charlotte whispered. “I haven’t known the guy for long, but I can tell,”

When an exhausted Marvin finally arrived at number one, Campbell Street, the inside was pitch dark. If he squinted, he could just faintly make out his mother’s eerie silhouette. He felt himself tense, left hand gripping the strap of his satchel until his knuckles went white.

“Where were you?”

“Out,” Karen Feldman’s son mumbled. He flinched when his voice cracked. “Studying. With the neighbours,”

“I’ve told you before, I don’t want you with them. You’ll be distracted, and you need straight A’s if you want to get into Harvard’s law program,”

“They’re my friends. And you don’t care who Emmett-”

“Leave your brother out of this!” she screamed, and Marvin barely flinched when he was struck across the cheek. He felt his tousled hair being harshly tugged on, and his mother advancing on him, her heels clicking menacingly against the pristine marble. “And don’t you  _ ever  _ leave the house without my permission again,”

In the blink of an eye, he was on the floor, head throbbing and cheek stinging. 

“Now go on upstairs,” she continued. “You won’t be joining us at the table tonight,”

Recoiling into himself, Marvin didn’t bother to wipe his eyes. The sound of plates and silverware clattering and his energetic younger brother bounding down the stairs muffled his quiet whimpers. Crying seemed to be the only thing he was doing these days.

After all, it was the only thing he was good for. 

  
  


_ fin.  _


	5. i hope i get it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> marvin, mendel, and whizzer audition for the school musical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again!  
> i started writing this at like 3 am last night, but then i got tired and went to bed lmao. i absolutely love doing theatre, even if i’m no trained professional, so i wanted to use that in a fic! you don’t need to have a vibrato and to have played tons of leads to be part of the theatre community, or be “good”. i suppose that’s the message i’m trying to get at here? i’m not sure lmao.
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoy this! comments and kudos are greatly appreciated, they make me really really happy <33

A light, airy breeze drifted through the air, the golden trees waving and dancing in perfect unison. The first traces of autumn were beginning to manifest; the chartreuse leaves adorning the ancient branches of the linden trees that lined either side of the primary entrance to the high school, were beginning to brown and flit daintily to the fading redbrick ground. Slowly but surely, the weather cooled, and T-shirts and sandals transitioned into cardigans and winter boots. An umber leaf crunched in pain underneath Whizzer’s sneaker as he and the others trudged through the cold to Caroline’s SUV at the end of the school day.

Whizzer glanced over at Marvin and Mendel, who walked alongside one another to his right. “You guys wanna come over later? Mama’s making brisket,”

“Can’t,” Mendel replied ruefully, his ears slightly pink underneath the mustard-yellow beanie that flattened his unruly ebony curls. The prospect of passing up Anne-Marie Brown’s neighbourhood-famous brisket seemed to somewhat trouble him. “Marv’s coming to my place to rehearse our audition songs for Fiddler,”

“Shit, I forgot you guys were doing that,” Whizzer said, suppressing a giggle. Internally, he knew it was unkind to poke fun, and immediately regretted it. Culpability settling in his heart, he fumbled with the broken zipper of his bomber jacket. “When’s the audition?”

“Dance call’s next Friday. Singing is Monday after next,” As if on cue, Marvin extracted a crumpled flyer from his overflowing satchel after some rummaging. “You should come,”

That time, Whizzer really did laugh. Staring down at the flyer, he grinned like his friend had cracked the greatest joke ever written. “Listen, Marv, you know I’ll support you and ‘Del regardless of whatever you idiots get up to. But we’ve been friends since middle school. You know theatre’s not my thing,”

“But-”

“Don’t you  _ dare  _ bring up The Artful Dodger,”

Marvin chuckled, falling in step with the taller boy after he was certain the coast was clear; Mendel had sped off in pursuit of Trina, yelling about God knows what for the entire campus to hear. As much as he understood Whizzer’s burning need to present himself to others as some cocky, masculine baseball player, Marvin knew his friend would forever cherish the memories he’d imminently make through theatre - he knew he did himself. And having Whizzer, one of his closest friends and confidants, in the rehearsal room with him, would make him feel far more relaxed and confident in himself. “Just think about it, okay?” he said, clinging to his friend’s arm as they approached the car.

The pitcher sighed. “When’s the dance call, again?”

“Next Friday. Hope you have jazz shoes,” 

Whizzer did not, in fact, own jazz shoes. After Caroline had pulled to a stop in front of his house, he’d turned the place upside-down in search of any footwear that would be remotely appropriate for a dance audition for a high school musical. In the end, he begrudgingly decided to ask his mom where she’d buried an old pair of his eldest sister’s shoes. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to avoid the inevitable jests and barrage of questions as to what he needed them for. He stayed up late into the night, researching the show he was about to impulsively audition for on his computer, so he wasn’t going in totally blind. Reading and rereading the plot, Whizzer understood what Mendel meant by “the most Jewish show on the planet”. The lead character, although a considerable stretch for someone who’d been in one musical throughout his life, seemed enticing. 

Picking out a song and monologue proved more difficult than he’d have liked. The professionals on the Internet instructed him to choose a melody that suited his range, but it was difficult to do so when he wasn’t sure what his range was. He racked his brains, trying to remember everything his choir teacher had taught him back in freshman year. In the end, following an extensive amount of Google searches and articles, he found something. Moreover, he never thought he’d be scouring PDFs of Shakespeare’s plays at three in the morning, searching for a half-decent monologue. His dyslexia most certainly did not appreciate it. He fell asleep with his laptop open, muttering the lyrics to the song he’d chosen as his mind drifted off.

“You came!” Marvin exclaimed gleefully as Whizzer entered the boys’ locker room of the gym the next Monday. He was dressed in one of his many sweatshirts, baggy joggers, and Mendel’s spare pair of jazz shoes. Beside him, the mentioned boy sat on a bench, tugging on his own shoes. 

“It’s my senior year. I figured why the fuck not?” The taller boy shrugged, slipping off his letterman and digging around in his old gym bag for his athleticwear. “Are these things difficult?”

“Not really,” Mendel clarified, straightening up. “Three-fourths of this school can’t dance to save their life,”

Absently, Marvin played with his hoodie strings. “They mostly just pick the ones that don’t look like a fucking fish out of water, and actually want to be there,”

Whizzer chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Noted,”

To Whizzer’s relief, the dance combination they were given wasn’t too complex. In his opinion, at least. The freshman girl dancing in front of him didn’t appear to share his views, however. He was aware that, to the other kids present, he probably looked foolish and out-of-place. If he was being honest, he was. His domain, his familiarity, his turf, was in the batting cage. His normal was pitching the baseball at the batter, the shouts of thousands of people filling his ears. Not jumping around in a gymnasium amongst a hundred sweaty teenagers. Whizzer was used to rigorous drills and laps around the track, not catchy music and jazz shoes. Nonetheless, he wanted to try. Try to immerse himself in the music, and come out victorious in whatever the hell this was. If not for himself, then for his friends. 

“Hey,” Marvin snapped him out of his reverie. His face was flushed and scarlet, and his breathing was irregular. Despite this, he was grinning. “You’re doing great,”

The baseball player grinned. “Thanks,”

Eventually, the director announced the end of the audition, and the threesome filed lethargically into the boys’ locker room. Mendel complained about how he’d screwed up a step, and Marvin could have sworn he’d seen the director glare at him at one point. Either way, both agreed that the audition had gone reasonably well. After days upon days of song prep at the Weisenbachfeld residence, Monday arrived. Whizzer trembled as he waited his turn, his stomach churning horribly. The other seniors warming up intimidated him, their angelic voices taunting him. His own singing was pleasant to a degree, but it could never rival the calibre of some of the trained kids scattered around the waiting room. 

“Andrew Brown? You’re next,” 

_ Fuck.  _

It was lunch period of the succeeding week. Whizzer shuffled down the narrow hallway, eager to reach his destination of the cafeteria. They were serving cinnamon rolls that day, and he wasn’t about to pass on them. He tried not to think about what would come of his Fiddler audition. Vaguely, he remembered the directors’ perplexed looks as he sang, like they were silently questioning why the baseball team’s pitcher was trying out for the musical. It didn’t seem like they were upset about it, however. All the mixed signals left Whizzer befuddled as to whether or not he’d done well.

Lifting his head, he could see a group of kids clustered around a display board. In the crowd, he could make out Marvin’s lanky frame and Mendel’s unmistakable black mop. 

“What’s everyone crowded around here for?” he asked, sidling over and pushing his way through the gaggle of children to reach his friends.

“Holy shit! Congrats, Whizzer!” Mendel beamed when he saw him, standing on tiptoe to clap the taller boy on the shoulder. 

“Wait, what?” was all he could manage. “What’d I do?”

Chuckling, Marvin pointed to the very first name on the list. Squinting, Whizzer deciphered the letters, and instantly felt like he’d been punched in the gut in the greatest possible way. A silly, elated smile made its way across his face. Next to the lead character was his own name. “ _ I’m  _ playing Tevye?” he stammered. “There’s gotta be some kind of mistake,”

“I’m in the ensemble,” Marvin deadpanned. “Trust me, there isn’t a mistake,”

“Hey, at least you get to dance with a bottle on your head?”

“I mean, fair,”

Still smiling, the boy with the black mop nudged the new lead. “How d’you feel?”

For a fleeting moment, he couldn’t form words. Kids congratulated him and shook his shoulders in excitement. Whizzer was surprised that they were so jovial, at least externally, about an outsider that, until a mere few weeks ago, knew next to nothing about the show they were doing. He felt Marvin wrap his arms around him, and just then, he felt so much love and acceptance that he felt as though he could float. 

Whizzer flicked the back of Mendel’s head. “Maybe you assholes were right after all,”

_ fin.  _


	6. close your eyes while we redecorate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cordelia takes charlotte shopping for room decor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i procrastinate finishing this until like 4 am and then stay up past sunrise to finish it? that’s a secret i’ll never tell 👀
> 
> anyway! hi! this was actually really fun to write, the lesbians are such amazing, well-rounded characters and sometimes i feel like there isn’t enough content for them out there. i hope 5 am sarah managed to do them the justice they deserve! a huge thank you to @passiondied for keeping me company while i wrote this, you’re really iconic and ily <3
> 
> i sincerely hope this isn’t too rushed, and that y’all like it! i’m going the fuck to bed now, enjoy!
> 
> comments and kudos are greatly appreciated, they make me feel so validated and happy :D

“Excuse the mess, I’ve been procrastinating actually unpacking my stuff ever since we got here,”

A certain excitable blonde in tow, Charlotte thundered up the stairs to the second storey of her family’s townhouse, the one on the left-hand side of the road with a door the colour of a fern in full bloom. Aside from the benevolence and neighbourly mannerisms of the other residents, the assorted colours of each house’s front door was Charlotte’s favourite aspect of the street she lived on. She was fond of the thought that the differing hues gave each white-painted townhouse, and the people that resided in them, a unique sense of originality and character. Sometimes she lay awake and wondered what her door’s green colour reflected about her family. 

Yes, it was considerably smaller than her house in Alabama had been, and yes, there was still the occasional box lying about despite it being October, but it felt more like home than her old house could ever feel. 

“You haven’t had the chance to decorate yet?” Cordelia said quietly, cerulean eyes wavering as she took in the room’s depressing, barren state. The cream walls were bare, save for three empty IKEA shelves installed above one another. An unobtrusive lamp was the only object adorning the nightstand, and the desk was home to but a laptop and the girl’s backpack. The room was void of any life, any personality, and it made Cordelia’s heart sink.

Charlotte began to fiddle with the Star of David around her neck. For some reason, she felt somewhat ashamed to have put a damper on her friend’s usually-high spirits. “I have some stuff coming in the mail, but other than that, not really,”

Then, as if by magic, the blonde’s mood instantly changed. Excitement radiating from her body like sunbeams, she grabbed the other girl’s hand and dragged her out of the room. 

“What are you doing?” Charlotte asked as she was pulled down the stairs once more.

“C’mon, we’re going to Target,”

Her ecstatic friend marching through the store as they pursued the homeware section, the Southerner found herself growing overwhelmed by the rolled-up rugs and corkboards and pictureframes with little intricacies. It happened more frequently than she’d care to admit - she had a vexing tendency to overthink even the merest of situations, blowing them completely out of proportion and allowing them to perturb her more than they should. There were endless possibilities as to how her bedroom could look - what if she did it wrong? Of course, buying room decorations had no rocket science or complex working behind it, so why did she feel as alienated as she did? 

But most importantly, why did she feel significantly safer when in the company of Cordelia?

Charlotte looked over at the blonde. “What’s first?” 

“Those things you’re getting in the mail, what are they specifically?” Cordelia said at length, after pondering their next move for several seconds. She supposed she could say she had limited experience with home decor; years ago, before her brother Phillip had shipped off to Boston for university, they’d remain awake until the silent, early hours of the morning rebuilding and renovating houses on his Sims game. By the end of that week, every Sim in the game owned a house more aesthetically-pleasing than the Thompsons’ own. 

“Well, they’re mostly posters-”

“Then I think we’ve found our starting point,” Cordelia smiled, pointing towards a shelf loaded with large, white photo holders. “We can paint them if you don’t like the colours?”

Yeah, she definitely felt safer when in the company of Cordelia. Why? Well, she had plenty of time to figure that out. “I get the feeling this is gonna be more fun than I expected,”

Surprisingly, Charlotte’s suspicions were confirmed. Her friend was strangely skilled in selecting items that she could see blending in tastefully with her bedroom. At first, figuring out what appealed to her was a frustrating challenge that involved taking something off a shelf or rack, then staring at it like it had committed some sort of crime for a solid three minutes, before either adding it to the growing pile of amusingly-random items in the cart or attempting to put it back the way she’d originally found it (this step occasionally proved difficult, as Charlotte stood at a mere 5”4 and would have to resort to embarrassedly asking Cordelia to do it for her). Around an hour and a half later, a pattern was sensed, and the task grew less arduous and, gradually, more entertaining. 

It still came as a shock sometimes that she’d been so anxious to make the drive up that summer. Quite frankly, when she reflected on it, the whole notion had been laughable. After all, what did they have in Alabama? Technically speaking, next to nothing. At school, she’d always been relatively reserved, scoring high on every exam she sat yet never volunteering during lessons. Some spat cutting comments that took Charlotte countless tears and sleepless nights to forget. Others barraged her with questions on the things that deemed her “different”. It was imminent, she supposed, being the only African-American family for five blocks, and part of the tiny cluster of kids of the Jewish faith at a school of primarily Christian kids, but it wasn’t right. Although she hadn’t perceived it so at the time, her father’s new job position at a hospital a thousand miles north was a blessing in disguise. 

Glancing sidelong at her, Cordelia offered her a small smile as she grabbed a box of fairy lights. “What’s on your mind?”

Briefly, the other girl looked mildly confused, before coming back down to Earth again. In her arms she clutched a gold-painted plant pot. “Sorry. Just thinking about… here. Being up here, I mean, and how different it is,”

“You’ve been here for around two months,” the blonde began, gently prying the pot from her grasp and placing it in the overflowing crimson shopping cart. She remembered when, numerous years ago, her and her older brother would accompany their fatigued parents to that very department store every weekend to purchase groceries, and Phillip would push his giggling little sister around in a trolley until it came time to check out. “How’re you finding New York?” she asked, in the most offensive city accent she could conjure.

“It’s great. I really do love it up here,” Charlotte laughed, grinning broadly. She fiddled with her necklace again - a nervous habit, she supposed. “I feel like… like I fit in more. And I guess I owe it all to you guys,”

“Hey, that’s awesome. I’m glad we could help,” the blonde nodded earnestly, throwing an arm around her friend’s shoulders. There was something enamouring about the way she’d tuck a stray wisp of hair behind her ear and suddenly seem extremely interested in her dirty shoes should she feel flattered, or the way she’d gnaw at her lip in deep contemplation during Home Ec or AP English. “I have a plan. You can come over for dinner, and then, if it’s possible, we can start to rearrange stuff in your room?”

“My parents are working late, so I can just shoot ‘em a text. You sure Mrs. Caroline will be okay with it? And your dad, too?

“Don’t sweat it,” Cordelia declared. “Your room’s gonna look like it’s been in a Pinterest tornado,”

“Whatever you say, Dee,”

  
  


_ fin.  _


	7. ghouls’ night out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> home alone on halloween, cordelia invites her friends over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!! i’m sorry for the wait, my motivation comes and goes i guess, but it’s 6 AM and i finally finished this! i’d originally started this yesterday, but never ended up finishing it. god knows why it took me so long to complete, but i’m really fucking tired now lmaooo. i hope y’all like this, and it’s somewhat alright? idk man, i’m literally half asleep fkdnrjdjs.
> 
> i hope you enjoy the product of a sudden burst of 6 AM motivation! comments and kudos mean so much to me, i get so so happy getting notifications for them and such :)
> 
> tw: implied/mentioned child abuse & eating disorders (i’m sorry)

If Cordelia was being frank, it was somewhat humiliating to be home alone on October thirty-first. At that moment in time, most girls her age would be out at the countless lively, largely-populated parties and gatherings they’d likely been invited to, grinding drunkenly on the dance floor and dressed in costumes so skimpy they’d make her Catholic mother faint. But not Cordelia - with her parents out on date night, and her brother probably playing some video game in his Harvard dorm with the curtains drawn, she was by herself, with only the cookies she’d impulsively baked for company. 

Sighing in disconsolation, the blonde stretched her entire body out on the living room couch. She’d hoped to have been invited to one party at the very least. Shit, there was even a costume waiting with anticipation on a hanger up in her room. Then again, it wasn’t like her parents would allow her to attend, or that her outfit was one that could be deemed “fit to be seen in public” (she didn’t think the kids at the top of the senior class hierarchy would take too kindly to her Twister board costume). 

Her cerulean eyes lingered briefly on her phone, that lay face-down on the coffee table with the sharp corners that had scratched up her legs more times than she could count, and she had an idea. An idea so simple, she pondered how she hadn’t thought of it before. Through a quick text on the groupchat she shared with her neighbours, her night appeared to be saved. 

“Hey, Dee, what’re we watching?” Whizzer called from his seat on the carpeted living room floor, his voice muffled by the chocolate bar in his mouth. He was dressed in a sailor costume, with shorts that would have revealed areas that everyone preferred to be concealed, had they been a few inches shorter. 

“I was thinking Nightmare Before Christmas?” the girl in question replied, sidling back into the makeshift movie theatre with a tray of steaming cookies in her oven-gloved hands. In spite of his evident, patent attempts at subtlety, she couldn’t miss the uneasy expression creeping across Marvin’s face upon discernation of the baked goods. When paired with Whizzer’s look of childlike glee, the pair seemed nearly comical, if it weren’t for the uncanny, grave undertones that filled the room with a nearly-tangible suspense, like a quiet drumroll before a grand crescendo. 

“Whizzer, don’t tell me you’re going to hog them all,” Trina, dressed in her old Harry Potter robes that dated back to when she was ten, sighed, retracting her hand when Whizzer slapped it away from the candy bowl. 

“That’s why I made these,” Cordelia grinned, passing out plates to everyone, save for the tallest of the group.

“Cordelia Rose,” the sailor began, visibly upset. “We have known each other since we were  _ five _ , and now you choose to pull this  _ despicable  _ trick on me? Unbelievable,”

Rolling her eyes, Charlotte crossed her arms over her chest. Wedged between the sofa’s plush arm and Trina’s slender body, she had arrived in a Stitch onesie - her half-assed excuse for a costume - and appeared as though she’d rather be stranded at the bottom of the Grand Canyon at that point in time. “It’s not like he won’t find a way to eat at least half of them,”

“Can you not? I came here to have a good time, and I’m honestly feeling so attacked right now,”

After everyone murmured their agreements of the viewing of the Nightmare Before Christmas, and many jests pertaining to his girlish scream at an ungrateful Whizzer, the movie began. Marvin made it his mission to put on a brave face and get through the duration of the film without cowering behind his hands or frantically groping for someone’s arm at the gory or frightening parts. An unsettling feeling festered in the pit of his stomach, one that he recognised. It always came and went at home, but never when he was around friends. His mother had been particularly hard on him that week - she hadn’t been all too pleased at the red, encircled B on her eldest son’s biology quiz. Consequently, he’d been put off cutting the zipties around the fridge when the Feldmans were asleep, or eating even a morsel of the school lunch prepared for him by Whizzer’s family. Even at the week’s long-awaited conclusion, he supposed he couldn’t shake the heavy feeling in his stomach of his mother’s screaming and the painful hunger pangs that attacked him like a million swords as he drifted in and out of fitful slumber. 

Slowly, so as to not draw any attention to himself, Marvin slid his plate of cookies to the right, in Whizzer’s direction. Just two weeks ago, he’d been told he was finally making progress, and he wasn’t about to erase the years of effort, willpower, and tears that went into it all by impulsively giving in to the cravings that nagged the back of his head. The sailor tilted his head, a quizzical look adorning his features. Marvin could only shrug apologetically in return. 

“I still can’t decide if this is a Christmas or Halloween movie,” Mendel piped around his third of Cordelia’s peanut butter chocolate-chip cookies, adjusting his cheese costume that was most certainly disturbing everyone else in the dimly-lit room. 

Charlotte limply threw a Snickers bar at his head. “It’s what would happen if Halloween took a shit on a Sesame Street episode,” 

“The last thing it is is a Christmas movie,” Trina added, wedged in between the curly-haired New Yorker and the girl in the Stitch onesie. 

“Holy shit, I’ve been thinking about that since I was a kid,” Mendel unwrapped the offending Snickers bar. “I truly am a changed man,”

The scene changed into one of great emotion and depth, and conversation dipped momentarily. The only sounds that could be registered were the rustling of wrappers and the shuffling of the viewers in their seats. At one point, Cordelia began to quietly whimper, tears streaming down her cheeks as she threw one of her discarded oven gloves at the screen. To everyone’s surprise, they could hear soft giggles coming from the direction of Whizzer, who was dangerously close to finishing the entirety of the candy in the IKEA bowl. 

“Excuse you, Andrew, this is supposed to be  _ heartfelt  _ and  _ emotional _ , you stone-cold piece of shit,” Cordelia said, lightly kicking the back of her friend’s head with her sock-clad foot. 

“This part always makes Kevin cry,” the baseball player told the group, still chuckling. “It’s fucking hilarious,”

Mendel furrowed his brows. “His laughing or this part? Because this part is anything but hilarious,”

“His laughing, you dipshit,”

Chuckling, Marvin raised his eyebrows. “Wow, you have serious emotional issues,”

After more acerbic quips and one or two choking incidents, the credits began to roll. As the others reflected on the cinematic masterpiece they’d just watched, Whizzer began rooting through the old overnight bag he’d brought. 

“What’re you looking for?” Trina queried, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. 

Whizzer produced a smaller black bag from the depths of the duffel. “My camera. I brought it so I could take a photo of you idiots in your weird-ass costumes,”

Cordelia nudged the brunette. “You can show it to your mom, Trin, so it looks like you have a shred of a social life,” 

“Let’s just take the picture, yeah?”

It turned out to be a relatively high-quality photo, but the photographer wasn’t sure it captured the quirky, unpredictable essence of the five people he could call his closest friends. But, after taking a second glance at it, and remembering the strange outfits they apparently had lying around their houses, his opinion promptly changed.

As the hours ticked by, nobody made to go home, and everyone was instead shown upstairs to borrow pajamas from the drawers of Cordelia and her absent older brother. They made the decision to sleep in the living room, with two on the large pullout couch, and the remaining people on pillows on the carpet. Admittedly, Marvin seemed somewhat nervous as he pulled a blanket over his frail body, but the hostess refrained from saying anything.

“Thanks for inviting us, Dee,” Mendel said mindlessly, already drifting off. “I did not want to babysit my sister on one of the greatest holidays known to man,”

“Except for Hanukkah,” Charlotte’s muffled voice said. 

“Oh, of course,”

In the swarming darkness, Cordelia smiled to herself. And to think she’d thought her night would be boring. 

_ fin.  _


	8. a super groovy, uber funky, jewatholic losers fam squad grad trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the group plan their grad trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! this chapter is a bit different, but i had fun writing it nonetheless! i felt like i’d find it difficult to properly write out this idea, so i turned it into a textfic. turns out, textfics are difficult too for someone who is literally the least funny person on the planet. after much deleting, i ended up abandoning my first draft and starting again when i should’ve been sleeping (i think we’re beginning to see a pattern here 👀), and finishing up today! 
> 
> i can say i’m somewhat proud of the final product, so i hope you guys like it too. anyway, i’ll stop rambling, but pls enjoy! comments and kudos mean so much to me <3
> 
> usernames:  
> marvin - @herecomesmarvin  
> whizzer - @bizzerwown  
> mendel - @disgruntledhimbo  
> trina - @aronocheezits  
> charlotte - @notaspider (bc charlotte’s web? i’ll stop)  
> cordelia - @deedeethompson

**groupchat - the jewatholic losers**

**2:23 AM**

**disgruntledhimbo:** what’s popping fam squad i think i just broke my toe

**herecomesmarvin:** did you actually break your toe this time or

**notaspider:** this time?? 👀👀

**aronocheezits:** last year he once texted us that he broke his toe

**bizzerwown:** turns out he was just being a dramatic bitch

**disgruntledhimbo:** IN MY DEFENCE THE CORNER OF THE TABLE WAS V E R Y SHARP

**disgruntledhimbo:** like deadass my life flashed before my eyes

**notaspider:** yeah okay

**deedeethompson:** pardon my french but why the fuck are all of you awake

**disgruntledhimbo:** i just had an idea that puts every idea in existence to shame

**herecomesmarvin:** because everyone’s best ideas come at 2 am on the morning of a calc test

**aronocheezits:** you guys i’m so nervous for it

**deedeethompson:** literally shush trina

**deedeethompson:** you could get the highest grade in the class and wish you’d done better

**herecomesmarvin:** you could get 100% and wish you’d done better

**bizzerwown:** fun fact, i didn’t actually sleep

**bizzerwown** : i was studying ;)

**disgruntledhimbo:** honestly man i’m just gonna wing it

**notaspider:** maybe that’s why you’re vibing w your C- average 👀👀

**disgruntledhimbo:** i

**disgruntledhimbo:** wow

**disgruntledhimbo:** i came here to have a good time and i’m honestly feeling so attacked right now

**deedeethompson:** in all seriousness tho, andrew mason price-brown you march your derriere into your bed right now

**bizzerwown:** no fuck you i want at least a C on this test 

**bizzerwown:** because mr johnson Hates Me

**bizzerwown:** it’s like he doesn’t think dyslexia is real???

**aronocheezits:** honestly i wouldn’t put it past him

**herecomesmarvin:** uneducated asshole

**deedeethompson:** ngl he probably doesn’t believe in climate change either smh

**disgruntledhimbo:** can y’all not i’m trying to propose my genius idea

**notaspider:** aH EM

**notaspider:** as a qualified southerner you do not have the right to say y’all

**disgruntledhimbo:** y’all

**bizzerwown:** electric chair.

**aronocheezits:** i

**deedeethompson:** no???????

**herecomesmarvin:** what’s your idea @disgruntledhimbo

**notaspider:** wait did you even break your toe

**disgruntledhimbo:** lmao no i just wanted to get your attention akfhsjdhshs

**deedeethompson:** whizzer don’t say electric chair

**bizzerwown:** no fair >:(

**herecomesmarvin:** omg wow hivemind 👀👀👀

**disgruntledhimbo:** ANYWAY MY IDEA

**disgruntledhimbo:** ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between

**disgruntledhimbo:** i present to you

**disgruntledhimbo:** a super groovy, uber funky, jewatholic losers fam squad grad trip

**herecomesmarvin:** we’ll work on the title 

**bizzerwown:** dw we can shorten it

**bizzerwown:** SGUFJLFSGT

**notaspider:** jesus it looks like the keyboard projectile vomited a fuckload of letters

**deedeethompson:** oooo where could we go??

**bizzerwown:** what about like. greece

**herecomesmarvin:** whizzer the locals would laugh at us the second we got off the plane

**notaspider:** not to mention like,,, money

**aronocheezits:** yeah we’re too poor for greece

**deedeethompson:** we are mere Peasants 😔👊

**disgruntledhimbo:** see here’s the thing

**disgruntledhimbo:** i was thinking more places we could go in my mom’s minivan

**bizzerwown:** i do not want to go anywhere in that fuckin car

**disgruntledhimbo:** i know it’s disgusting but we can’t all fit in your boujie convertible thing

**deedeethompson:** estelle weisenbachfeld’s minivan was a cultural reset wym

**notaspider:** she invented the soccer mom

**disgruntledhimbo:** none of my family play soccer like at all

**bizzerwown:** being a soccer mom has nothing to do with whether you play soccer mendel

**herecomesmarvin:** it’s a ✨state of mind✨

**aronocheezits:** this is a stretch but maybe florida?

**deedeethompson:** it isn’t as much of a stretch as fucking greece trina

**bizzerwown:** omgomgomgomg disney resort

**herecomesmarvin:** lmaoooo i feel bad for whoever is paying for this trip

**disgruntledhimbo:** bold of you to assume we’re not just gonna sneak into the hotel at 3 am and drop kick some family out of their room

**notaspider:** wow this really is the ultimate grad trip experience

**deedeethompson:** okayokay maybe not disney resort but we should definitely go to disney

**herecomesmarvin:** if we even end up going we have to make an agreement to limit whizzer on snacks

**aronocheezits:** on one hand it prevents the puke sessions in the public trash cans

**deedeethompson:** but also he’ll be cranky for the entire day and Ruin Everything

**disgruntledhimbo:** i say we let him

**disgruntledhimbo:** BUT he pays for them himself

**disgruntledhimbo:** so if he runs out of money it’s Not our fault >:)

**bizzerwown:** i hate all of you

**bizzerwown:** but y’all are my only actual friends so like ig i’ll do it 😔✌️

**notaspider:** YOU CANNOT SAY Y’ALL EITHER

**aronocheezits:** okay how are we going to do this

**deedeethompson:**?

**herecomesmarvin:** we have to actually plan this if we’re gonna do it, like what route to take and hotels and shit like that

**herecomesmarvin:** if we go in the minivan

**notaspider:** wym “if” ofc we’re going in the minivan you swine

**aronocheezits:** it would be easier if we went by plane though

**disgruntledhimbo:** bold of you to assume i have the money to pay for a plane ticket

**bizzerwown:** okay but can we fly first class

**notaspider:** whizzer i’m pretty sure we’d only be able to afford One first class seat if we all pooled our life savings

**bizzerwown:** yeah and i’ll sit in it, you bitches can go sit with the commoners 😤

**herecomesmarvin:** wow okay smh

**deedeethompson:** but like in the grand scheme of things,,, wouldn’t we be saving money if we went by plane? 

**deedeethompson:** bc we’d be saving on gas and motels and stuff from rest stops 

**notaspider:** looking at you whizzer

**bizzerwown:** um idk what you’re talking about

**aronocheezits:** all in favour of going by plane say aye

**bizzerwown:** i will go by bike if it means i don’t have to sit in the minivan of crushed dreams

**disgruntledhimbo:** it’s actually called the estellemobile so like???? have some respect????

**herecomesmarvin:** i don’t have money for a plane ticket

**herecomesmarvin:** and it’d be bold of you to assume my mom would get one for me

**bizzerwown:** nono it’s good i’ll pay for it

**notaspider:** correction: his mom will pay for it bc he’s broke and anne-marie brown is a fucking saint

**deedeethompson:** i stg when pangea eventually reforms whizzer’s mom will rule over everybody 

**disgruntledhimbo:** #bringbackpangea😤👊

**aronocheezits:** i’ll ask my parents about the trip tomorrow

**aronocheezits:** in the meantime, i’m going back to bed

**aronocheezits:** bye hoes 

**disgruntledhimbo:** gn trina :)

**_@aronocheezits is offline._ **

**notaspider:** okay everyone go to sleep right fucking now

**bizzerwown:** lmao no i’m gonna keep studying

**herecomesmarvin:** oh shit my mom’s coming gotta blast

**_@herecomesmarvin is offline._ **

  
  


**deedeethompson:** i really hope he’s okay,,,

**notaspider:** i’m gonna sleep now but whizzer i stg if you’re still awake i will riot

**bizzerwown:** >:(

**_@bizzerwown is offline._ **

  
  


**disgruntledhimbo:** i’m p sure he’s afraid of you

**notaspider:** g’night folks

**deedeethompson:** gn char!!!

  
  


**_@notaspider is offline._ **

**_@deedeethompson is offline._ **

  
  


**disgruntledhimbo:** wow out of all my 2 am ideas this is the first one that’s actually been good

  
  


**_@disgruntledhimbo is offline._ **

  
  


_fin._

  
  



	9. a rainy night in rochester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes, the pressure to be perfect gets too much for trina.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy SHIT this took forever  
> anyway welcome to part nine of this fuckin mess  
> i actually had a lot of fun writing this! i considered scrapping it for a little while, but i loved the concept too much fjsjdbehdh. trindel is a blast to write about, they’re adorable and i love them sm <3  
> uhhhh enjoy this flangst, and have yourselves a wonderful day/night!

On a rainy night in Rochester, Trina sat on her front porch, blue eyes staring piercingly into the abyss as slim droplets of water pelted against the well-worn, cobbled road that separated Mendel, Marvin, and her house from Charlotte, Whizzer, and Cordelia’s. It was three in the morning, and she hadn’t left her hunched position on her father’s creaking, rusty, striped lawn chair since she’d fled her once-shared bedroom at midnight in floods of tears. She didn’t notice when the water from the sky started seeping into the fringe she despised with every fibre of her being, yet kept getting trimmed when it lengthened because her mother ordered it. She didn’t notice when the horrid nightgown that fell to her ankles clung to her body with water. There Trina remained, swaddled in her sister’s old throw blanket and curled up on Benjamin Aronowitz’s chair, watching as the rain attacked her quiet little street like the army soldiers her dear father fought alongside before he settled for the life of an AP Mathematics teacher.

Because sometimes, life in the Aronowitz household was too much. 

Too much for Trina and her younger half-brother, but not for their parents. Losing sleep over a quiz wasn’t enough. Staying awake late into the night, surrounded by cups of tea, revising for a test that wasn’t scheduled to take place for three weeks wasn’t enough. An eighty-five on last week’s calculus test wasn’t enough. 

Somehow, her mother always had a way of finding out, even when her middle daughter went out of her way to avoid her seeing her test results, and the subsequent lecture that followed. By now, Trina had it memorised - words about college and scholarships and degrees and jobs and marriage spoken in a tired Kansas accent, with the occasional murmur of agreement from her bashful father. You’d think she’d be able to tune it out at this point, to switch her ears off until it was all over, but Trina always retreated to her room feeling just as ashamed as she had the last time she’d heard her mother’s practiced speech. 

Trina felt her stomach churn as she stared down her side of the road at the Weisenbachfelds’ striking scarlet door. She’d always liked the brazen and outgoing aura it seemed to emit, rather contrary to the timidness of the Aronowitz’s lilac, or the suspicious, sinister nature of the Feldmans’ deep grey. Something bubbled and curdled and frothed inside her, something that she couldn’t keep holding in. She couldn’t keep bottling up her fears concerning university, or whether or not a man would even dream of marrying a girl as plain as her, or Trina was certain the dam would break and she’d spiral, living life as a maniacal spinster with only her wine closet and disturbing amount of cats for company. Perturbed by her own thoughts, she shook every whim and panic from her mind, continuing to stare at the crimson door. Something about it had always enticed her.

“Trina?” a New York accent said in surprise, awkwardly lowering the shoe she’d planned on attacking an intruder with. Of all the things Estelle Weisenbachfeld expected to find on her doorstep at three AM, the tall, sheepish girl with the auburn fringe and exquisite manners from next door was definitely not on the list. Nonetheless, she wasn’t about to leave her standing in the rain, a sopping knit throw blanket about her shaking shoulders. “What’s wrong? Everything a’ight?”

“H-hi, Mrs Weisenbachfeld. I know it’s late and you’re probably really confused as to why I’m here, but please may I talk to Mendel? It’s, uh, it’s important,” 

Estelle’s expression softened. “You’d best come in. It’s rainin’ something awful out there, and I won’t have you catching cold,”

Once inside, the woman steered the girl towards the living room, where she switched on the electric fireplace that, frankly, she still wasn’t too clear on how to operate, and insistently asked if she was warm enough, or if anything required fetching or making. It flattered and slightly amused Trina that she adamantly wouldn’t hear her polite refusals, and returned to the living room with a fresh nightgown and a mug of bitter, diluted cocoa that, despite its taste, Trina sipped at gratefully. As the rain continued to patter loudly against the large windowpanes and the water began to drain from her hair, loud footsteps and tired, bewildered complaints could be heard, in a unique voice that she knew could only be Mendel’s.

“Trin, what happened? What are you doing here?” he asked sleepily, abruptly stopping in his tracks upon sight of one of his closest friends huddled by his electric fireplace, scrubbing at those beautiful blue eyes, soiled by the redness that surrounded them after hours of sobbing. He found himself on the floor beside her, peeling off one of the numerous itchy sweatshirts his mom made for him, and helping her into it. The colours clashed horribly and the collars were misshapen because his mother wasn’t all too familiar with the complex workings of knitting needles, but they sure as hell kept him warm on cold nights such as that one. 

“I like it,” she said, which nearly made Mendel fall over in shock. “It’s warm. And endearing, in a way,”

The boy chuckled, plucking a rogue piece of lint from the shoulder. “By all means, take it. I have way too many, and I fuckin’ hate all of them,” he said, like the sweaters were the literal bane of his existence. Yet he understood that his mother intended no ill, and would do anything in or out of her power for her four children. It was reasonable that she was protective, and sometimes borderline overbearing; it had been just her and the kids since Mendel was eight and his absent father had packed up and left, leaving not a penny for his wife to pay rent or the bills. It’d been her idea for all of them to move upstate from Queens - without her, Mendel wouldn’t have met his closest friends. “Come with me. I know a place where you can tell me what’s happening in private,”

Trina was pulled to her feet, racing through the silent house while clutching Mendel’s hand. “Where are we going?”

“The backyard,”

“Won’t we get wet again?”

“Not where we’re going,”

The pair squeezed through the sliding glass door and onto the back porch’s creaking spruce boards that were slippery with rainwater. She could faintly make out the rusty swingset that the entire family still used, and the picnic table by the fence that her and their friends would eat at (Whizzer admittedly more than anyone else) when the Weisenbachfelds hosted their raucous Fourth of July barbecues, where the entire neighbourhood and then some were invited for an afternoon of swimming, grilling, and drinking, which was primarily directed at the adults, but that didn’t stop the more adventurous children from sneaking a sip when nobody was looking. But what Trina never noticed was the treehouse nestled in the thick oak tree growing in the corner of the backyard. And if her instincts were right, that was where Mendel was leading her. 

“How long have you had this?” Trina queried as she climbed inside, only to be met with a myriad of pillows and blankets, with posters and drawings of varying quality on the wooden walls, and even a CD player and wireless mini fridge. 

“Since forever. The tree’s been here since we moved in. Whizzer’s dad built this as a housewarming gift,” Mendel replied, drumming his fingers against one of the walls. “Now, tell me what’s up,”

The girl sighed, tucking her hair behind her ear as she snuggled under one of the blankets. “It’s just my mom, I guess. She’s being more harsh than normal because I’m going to college next year. I got yelled at for my eighty-five on the calc test,” she began, her mother’s reprimands filling her eyes with tears again. “I love her so much, but she puts a lot of pressure on me. Not just with school, but she expects me to be all kind and sweet and polite all the time. It’s like she doesn’t want me to have a personality, just so I can get married when I get older, or some bullshit like that,”

Mendel’s heart lurched, and he shuffled closer, using his thumb to gently wipe the tears that spilled from her eyes. “Not all men,” he began without thinking. Trina looked up at him quizzically. “There’s a guy out there that loves everything about you, Trin. He loves your bangs, even if you hate them. He loves when you talk about Shakespeare, and he thinks all your dresses are the fucking height of fashion,”

“Even if they look like they came out of a time machine?”

“Yeah. He’d hate to see you cry, but he knows it’s normal. He loves  _ you _ , and not the girl your mom tries to force you into being,” he rambled, his voice growing dreamy and his mind going blank as he spoke, only realising what he was doing after he’d stopped.

“God, I can’t wait to meet him,” Trina snivelled, smiling wetly. Mendel had to fight the urge to let out a sigh of relief. “It’s wonderful up here, ‘Del. Thank you,”

“Hey, it’s okay. It’ll be our place, and you can come up here whenever you want,” he coaxed, and Trina seemed to enjoy the idea. “Stay over tonight. It’s Saturday, and I’m not gonna let you walk home in the rain,”

“But your mom-”

“She’ll understand. Even if she doesn’t, she won’t say anything because she loves you so much. To her, you’re the literal definition of ‘nice Jewish girl’,”

Trina rolled her eyes, ensuring the treehouse didn’t creak as she laid down. “Goodnight, ‘Del,” she laughed, squealing slightly when he flicked the back of her head.

“Sweet dreams,” he said, and drifted off facing the back of her head. 

He’d never been more grateful to his mother for waking him up. 

  
  


_ fin.  _


	10. the burlap sack cult

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a day at fiddler rehearsals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> emerges from the ashes  
> holy shit i’m so sorry. it’s been like a week since i updated, mostly because my motivation chose to abandon me when i wanted to actually write something. but, it’s seven in the morning, i haven’t gone to bed, and i present to you chapter ten of this huge fucking mess. despite my limited knowledge of fiddler (thank you wikipedia) and my fluctuating motivation, i had a good time writing this, and i hope you like it! my dialogue feels a bit cringe but it’s fINE-
> 
> comments and kudos are greatly appreciated, they make me so so happy <33

A chill slithered down Whizzer’s spine underneath his navy coat. One of the few cons of his fast metabolism was that the bitter, wintry New York weather never failed to send bouts of shivers coursing like lightning through his squirming, thin body regardless of how many jumpers and jackets his mother insisted he bundle himself in, or how much scalding hot chocolate and green tea he drank. All was silent as Whizzer trudged sleepily down the main school pathway, the loud, protesting crunches of the dying leaves the only thing preventing his eyes from drooping shut on the spot. The bushes didn’t rustle with exhilaration, the gnarled trees didn’t solemnly wave, and there was no complimentary concert from the chipper larks that resided in them. It was a quiet, crisp Saturday, and the absence of any sort of morning hustle or hubbub unsettled Whizzer. With all his might, he tried to shove away any thoughts of the kids that were sleeping in at that moment, and not attending a nine AM rehearsal for Fiddler On the Roof.

Laden with warm Starbucks foods in brown paper bags for him and his friends (not that Whizzer hadn’t had his breakfast prior to driving there), the lead entered the auditorium. He was immediately met with the ear-splitting sound of kids warming up, talking amongst one another, or running lines, and the eerie silence of the morning suddenly didn’t seem so agonising. Admittedly, Whizzer was still overcoming the shock of snagging the lead - seeing the director grin in his direction every rehearsal, or the music teacher nodding approvingly at the private voice lessons he’d begged his mother for promptly after he’d seen the cast list, felt so surreal to him. Even after around six weeks of rehearsals, Whizzer still felt butterflies flitting about his stomach when kids he barely knew would profusely compliment his singing after he breathlessly shuffled offstage. Everything was unfamiliar and new, but to be completely honest, he didn’t hate it. 

Eyes narrowing slightly as he scoured the room, he located Marvin and Mendel, nestled together in the far left corner of the spacious auditorium, the former’s sleeping body spanning three blue seats. Whizzer jogged up to meet them, careful not to spill the paper cups of piping coffee he held. 

“Morning,” he grinned, holding out the food he wielded. “I brought you children breakfast,”

“You godsend, thank you,” Mendel gasped, snatching one of the bags from his friend’s grasp. Today was no exception to his usual appearance; a frenzied, disheveled mess. Under his hoodie, his ebony curls were wild and tousled, and he was dressed in what Whizzer could only describe as pajamas. Seriously, nobody understood how he hadn’t been dress coded even once throughout all his eventful career at Highland Ridge.

“Is Marvin alright?” Whizzer queried, crossing his legs on the floor, despite the ocean of seats surrounding them. 

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” the boy in questioned replied, his voice heavy with sleep as he scrubbed at the half-open baby-blues behind the brown, circular frames that bore so much similarity to the glasses Whizzer had only recently grown comfortable wearing in front of the public eye, and not just his family or close friends. He could infer that his friend had only been asleep for a mere fifteen minutes or so, but the harsh dark circles under his eyes told the more-than-slightly-concerned baseball player that that power nap was much needed. 

“I brought muffins and coffee, if you want,” Whizzer nervously offered, running a hand through the hair he’d forgotten to gel. At Marvin’s embarrassed nod, Mendel passed him the last of the paper bags and coffee cups, and he wolfed them down with great haste as the director caught the attention of her sleepy cast, and informed them of the songs and scenes on the agenda that day. Out of the corner of his eye, Whizzer could see Mendel drop his head into his hands when he heard that his solo was to be rehearsed that day. Quietly, he chuckled; something in him knew that today was sure to be an interesting one. 

“I hate it,” Mendel scowled, crossing his arms over one of the rough potential costumes the three people working the wardrobe department had in mind for Motel. The trio lounged about in the boys’ dressing room while  _ Matchmaker, Matchmaker  _ took place onstage. “I look like what would happen if my mom’s carpet and a burlap sack had a one night stand that went horribly wrong,”

“I got PTSD just hearing that,” Marvin deadpanned, flipping through Whizzer’s script. “Ah, fuck, my mind’s gone to dark places,”

“Ew, get your mind out the gutter,”

“Fuck off, you’re the one that brought it up,” 

“Don’t worry about it, ‘Del. I’m pretty sure every boy that’s doing this goddamn show is gonna look like a burlap sack,” Whizzer attempted to console him, fiddling with the battered brown cap given to him by the wardrobe team. “We’re like, a burlap sack club,”

Mendel cocked his head. “It’s more like a cult,”

“We should probably go, Whiz. Your song’s just after this, and then it’s Sabbath Prayer,” Marvin said, handing the lead his script back.

Shoes thudding against the carpeted floor of the dressing room, Whizzer got to his feet, his expression morphing into one of slight discomfort and anxiety. He was still insecure about his singing voice, in spite of the director’s gleeful praise and the voice teacher’s claims that he was improving in leaps and bounds. “I know I’ve been doing it for a lot of my life, but pretending to be straight can get really fuckin’ boring,”

Carefully peeling off the costume draft, Mendel followed the pair into the wings after handing it back to the wardrobe team. “I thought you said your parents knew by the time you were five?”

Whizzer scowled. “It’s still boring,” 

And so, the three-hour rehearsal progressed, with countless jokes and bouts of laughter along the way. Mendel found himself bonding with the awkward, clumsy music teacher as he helped him learn the tune and the lyrics to  _ Miracle of Miracles.  _ He wasn’t strict nor austere, and didn’t laugh when the boy’s voice cracked at a few points. By the time he’d been taught around half the song, Mendel discovered that he enjoyed singing with the bespectacled man, rather than dreading it due to his changing voice. Meanwhile, Marvin had a blast with the other kids that were shoved into the ensemble, and he probably made more friends in one hour of aimless milling while the principals did their thing, than he had during his entire time in high school. 

“Holy  _ shit,  _ the choreo for To Life is going to kill me,” Whizzer groaned on the way to his car - his friends agreed to stay at his house for the remainder of the day, and meet the girls for lunch at two. 

“For once, you’re right,” Marvin panted, his face still flushed after the fiasco that was choreographing the strenuous number. “I’m not surprised you fell over,”

Whizzer sighed, like he’d been over the subject numerous times before. “I’m telling you, I tripped over the chair, it wasn’t my fault,”

“Sure, blame the chair,” Mendel rolled his eyes, hitching his rehearsal bag higher up on his shoulder and eating an apple he’d stolen from Whizzer’s lunch while he was onstage. 

“You aren’t a suitable witness, Mendel Joseph,” Whizzer said indignantly, furrowing his brows in annoyance and jabbing a finger at his chest. “You weren’t there. And why on God’s green  _ fucking  _ earth are you eating my apple?”

“I thought you wouldn’t notice,”

On the far right, Marvin scoffed, stuffing his calloused hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. “You really thought  _ Whizzer  _ wouldn’t notice if you took his food? And you’ve known him for longer than I have,”

“I don’t believe this. Marvin and I are gonna go home, and leave you to rot in the street by yourself,”

Overall, the dreaded Saturday rehearsal had turned out successful.

  
  


_ fin.  _


	11. sit by the firelight’s glow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whizzer takes marvin, charlotte, and cordelia on his family camping trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wowie it’s part e l e v e n  
> eid mubarak to those who celebrate, like i do! i was pretty excited to write this, and properly introduce y’all to my own little version of whizzer’s family that i’ve annoyed countless people about since their invention. creating characters is so fun, and i love adding new people and making up situations for the little world of the price-browns. so uh if you ever want to know more about these losers feel free to hmu and i will not shut up about them 👀
> 
> anyway, a few things you should know! whizzer has five siblings, all of whom are older than him: katie, kevin (as in kevin price yes this is a price-brown au do not come for me) who’s her twin brother, courteney, and natalie. mcpriceley is a thing, and they both go to college together after their mission. whizzer’s first name is andrew, his mom is really goddamn cool, and i think that’s all! 
> 
> holy shit that was long, but i hope you like it! comments and kudos mean everything, i absolutely love reading them <33
> 
> (yes i stole the title from the lotr musical and what about it)

To put it simply, it was pandemonium at the Price-Brown residence - every child (save for Whizzer) had returned to their lively childhood home from their respective colleges for what was certain to be an eventful winter break, some with intriguing new people in tow, and others sporting haircuts and garments drastically different to the ones they had prior to departure. As a result of their reunion, the house was alive with the nostalgic hustle of a foregone era; people scurried up and down the stairs in pursuit of mislaid scarves or coats and other assorted odds and ends. Two half-asleep parents hollered at them to get their asses in the twelve-seat rental van currently parked in the frosty driveway. Anne-Marie’s car was large enough for their substantial family of eight, but certainly not for the extra four people tagging along on the annual Price-Brown camping trip. 

Charlotte sat awkwardly in the second row’s middle seat, wedged in between a snoozing Cordelia and a young man with striking red hair and hundreds of freckles dotting his pale complexion that the Southerner was quite sure she’d never seen before. At least she knew everyone else, though - Whizzer introduced her to his brood of siblings, and they’d all warmed up to her fairly quickly. Charlotte took pride in her enviable ability to remember names and match them to faces at the drop of a hat. She wasn’t sure what she’d signed up for when agreeing to her friend’s invitation to accompany his family, but it wasn’t like she had anything better to do. Her parents were driving back down to Alabama to visit friends and collect a few remaining items from his previous workplace, and their daughter had hesitantly told them she’d rather remain at home. 

In the row behind theirs sat Whizzer and Marvin, who seemed far more at ease than usual. It was a reassuring sight, seeing him laughing and jesting with a spindly older boy in their row whose hair appeared to be a distinct cobalt-blue colour that Charlotte faintly remembered being told his name was Jack, rather than hanging back like he typically would at school and any gatherings. Charlotte smiled. She’d admit she felt slightly apprehensive and uneasy when packing her bags for the trip, but she felt her spirits lifting with every minute she spent in that uncomfortable middle seat, around these eccentric people that took an interest in her, and welcomed her to the Campbell Street family with open arms.

“Oh, Char, this is Connor,” Whizzer piped, leaning his chin against the seats in front of his and pointing at the redheaded boy beside her. “He’s Kevin’s  _ boyfriend _ that he met on his  _ mission trip _ ,” Here, he raised his voice so his oldest brother could hear him in the front row, enunciating certain words in a way that he knew always pushed his buttons. 

“I swear to God, you-”

“Hey, keep it down!” their father Adam interjected. “I won’t have you two fighting all the way to Westchester,”

“The campsite’s in Westchester? That’s five hours away,” Connor said tiredly, internally groaning. He loved Kevin, he truly did, but deep down, he didn’t want to be surrounded by five other college students (sans Katie, so four) and four high schoolers for five hours with no escape. 

“Yeah,” muttered Courteney, the third-oldest and a sorority leader at UCLA, from her seat in the last row. “You get used to it around two hours in. Just tell me if you need any medicine for the headache you’ll definitely get in half an hour,”

In the front, Anne-Marie typed the location into their newly-installed GPS system. Despite her husband’s protests that he’d read the directions off the map, she wasn’t about to risk turning a five-hour drive into a fifteen-hour one. She’d experienced that once, and once was more than enough.

Jesus, this would be one heck of a journey. 

“Where is this meant to go?” Marvin said, holding out one of the many poles that were on the ground by the limp tent he was assisting Whizzer, Cordelia, and Charlotte in the pitching of. After hours of car games, music, and screaming, the van had finally pulled into the campsite, and the small army of people made the laborious trek up a hill to reach a spot near the forest. Anne-Marie and Adam begrudgingly agreed to co-ed tent groupings when Jack had stubbornly proclaimed that he’d rather have bears tear him limb from limb than be confined to a tent with Kevin and his boyfriend. The group were scattered about the top of the hill, some having more trouble than others. But the gaggle of high schoolers seemed to be struggling the most.

Frowning, Charlotte pointed at a diagram on the instruction paper. “Uh, I don’t think we’re doing this right. Like, at all,” she piped, squinting at the manual. “Yeah, we completely fucked it up,”

“Are you shitting me?” Whizzer blew a stray lock of chestnut hair from his eyes. It was getting a little longer than usual, but he didn’t mind. In actuality, he rather liked his grown-out undercut. Sometimes, if he were at a loss for something to do, he’d steal hairties from his mother’s room and fashion tiny, spiked pigtails in his hair. “We have to start over? For the third goddamn time?”

“We’d be done by now if you actually knew what you were doing,” Cordelia raised her eyebrows, stuffing her hands in the pockets of her grey sweatpants. 

Folding his arms, Whizzer stuck his tongue out at her, and narrowed his eyes when a giggle slipped from her mouth. “Shut the fuck up, I know what I’m doing,”

“You literally put the poles in wrong,” Charlotte deadpanned from beside a shady tree.

The baseball player took a second glance at their limp, sorry tent and realised that he did, in fact, put the poles in wrong. His scowl only darkened. “I’ll go get Kevin,”

Ten PM found the group of twelve huddled by a roaring orange campfire in pajamas and sweatshirts and blankets, quietly munching on sandwiches and sticky s’mores. It had always been Anne-Marie’s favourite part of the three-day trip. Her heart swelled when she reflected on how far they’d come since childhood, when Katie blew up at her twin brother (not that she didn’t anymore), Natalie would play her flute at hours when flutes should not be played, and her little Andrew would cry and scream when he wasn’t allowed more dinner. It reassured the lady to know that, even though her youngest would ship off to college the next year, these trips would always bring them back together. Not just flesh and blood, but the chosen family like Connor and Marvin and Char and Dee that Anne-Marie loved just as she did her own sons and daughters.

“Mama, can I have another s’more?” Whizzer asked, licking his fingers.

The woman took a swig of water from one of the numerous bottles she’d brought. “I don’t know, Andy, honey, you’ve had three already,” she shrugged. 

Whizzer’s cheeks reddened, and he heard Marvin laugh from beside him, who attempted to disguise it as a cough. It was only on rare occasions that Whizzer’s proper name was used, let alone his childhood nickname. 

Kevin and Connor were holding hands opposite him, their chairs positioned beside one another’s. “You’ll be bouncing off the goddamn walls,” the former said.

Dropping her sandwich on the ground through her dramatic reaction, Natalie gasped. “Kevin Price-Brown, I am ashamed, you blasphemous sinner. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Jack nudged a snickering Connor, mildly concerned. “What  _ happened  _ on that mission trip?”

For a brief moment, the redhead’s freckled face was grave. “You don’t want to know. At all,”

Pulling the blanket tighter around his body, Marvin budged up beside Whizzer, who was making another s’more despite his mother’s words. After he’d finished, he put an arm around the slighter of the pair, and the boy from Massachusetts leaned into his welcoming embrace. 

This was his family. And he wouldn’t trade them for anything. 

  
  


_ fin.  _


	12. ghostbusters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the four embark on a ghosthunting adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! i’m so sorry for the wait, i started this two days ago and tried to finish yesterday, but i wasn’t feeling too great. however, i’m feeling much better today, so here’s this!
> 
> before we get into it, i’d just like to talk about what’s happening with the black lives matter movement and all the horrible things happening over in the USA right now. i don’t really like getting political, mostly because i know i’ll probably get a lot of backlash for it, but this must be brought to light, and i figured i’d use my little platform to spread awareness of this injustice against the black community. if you’re going to a protest, i wish you the best of luck from halfway across the world. please stay safe, i love you and i see you and i care about you. bring a first aid kit, bring a tourniquet, bring whatever you think is necessary. to anyone and everyone reading this, i urge you to use whatever platform you have, small or big, to raise the alarm. i’m not black, but i see you. no justice no peace.
> 
> holy shit i hope nobody comes for me. i hope you enjoy the fic! comments and kudos mean everything, i absolutely love seeing all of them, they make me really happy <3

The campsite was a graveyard. Not a single sound could be registered, save for the incessant chirp of the chattering crickets, or the ominous hoot of a faraway owl, assertive and clear against the thick, unsettling midnight silence. Not that the mystical noises of the night ever bothered the campers; the Price-Browns were infamous for being strangely heavy sleepers. However, the youngest of them lay awake in the cramped tent he’d practically begged his brother into constructing for him, because despite travelling to this exact campsite every year, his outdoor skills were jokingly sub-par. Excitement filled Whizzer’s curled-up body as he stared up at the tent’s ceiling, smiling softly as he pondered an idea. 

He’d forced his siblings to accompany him on his ghosthunting adventures ever since he was a mere nine-year-old who’d stumbled upon a plethora of conspiracy theory videos one night. Some encouraged his consequent curiosity, some dreaded trudging through a forest at an hour meant for sleeping in search of things that didn’t exist, and others enjoyed toying with his mind and playing practical jokes that scared him shitless. Katie, an avid fan of any supernatural or paranormal activity, was more than happy to drive him to the eerie construction sites and abandoned warehouses all over town and even search them with him, flying off the handle if Courteney grumbled or Jack scared his youngest brother purposefully. She’d even gifted him a ghosthunting set against their mother’s will on his tenth birthday. But Whizzer had never taken his friends along on his camping escapades. That was about to change.

Three AM was fast approaching. The baseball player already had his backpack prepared, all his supplies neatly tucked inside. Cordelia’s fuchsia sleeping bag rustled as she turned over in her sleep. Whizzer figured that was a good place to start.

“Hey, Dee,” he whispered, kicking her in the leg. “You awake?”

“No…?” the girl replied huskily, her voice heavy with sleep. Blue eyes cracking half-open, she furrowed her brows, burrowing herself further into the sleeping bag. “If it’s still dark out, you’re done for,”

“Do you wanna come ghosthunting with me?” Whizzer whispered.

“Why the ever-loving fuck would I want to come ghosthunting with you?” Cordelia sat up slowly and scrubbed at her eyes, groping for her phone and switching on the flashlight feature. Whizzer coiled into himself, shrinking away from the beams of artificial white light. “I think you’re forgetting that ghosts don’t exist, Andrew,”

Sighing, he began digging through his backpack, producing a device that resembled a walkie-talkie. “Take this. Get Char and Marvin. Let’s catch us some fucking ghosts,”

“I hate you so much, you know that?”

That was how four high-schoolers ended up tiptoeing across the leafy campground, armed with nothing but flashlights and a ragged, well-worn backpack stuffed with heavy equipment that Whizzer seemed to have no trouble carrying. Further and further from the tent setup the group reluctantly trudged, until they came to a sleepy halt outside a dark, noiseless forest. The looming, stagnant spruce trees leered with slyness at the quartet, smiling so sinisterly they sent shivers down even fearless Charlotte’s spine. The owl’s persistent hoots and the wind’s almost warning whistles didn’t exactly soothe their nerves, either.

Truth be told, the aspiring doctor was terrified of the dark. Since she was a child, she’d always kept her views relatively factual, basing her opinions off of scientific evidence, to the extent that she’d even doubted Judaism for a brief period of time, but the dark was another story entirely. When the lights were off or the blood-orange sun had dozed off for the night, there was no telling who was by your side, who had run off, or what was creeping up behind you when your back was turned. In the dark, she was alone. And anything could happen if you were alone. 

“Hey,” Cordelia’s calming voice brought her back to reality. “Earth to Char?”

“What?” was all she could manage, blinking repeatedly in her daze. She felt something,  _ someone,  _ gently clasp her hand, but she didn’t need to glance downward to guess who it was. Tension spread like wildfire throughout her body, her insides burning. 

The blonde raised her eyebrows, pulling up the hood on her hoodie. “I asked if you were okay,” she prompted, giving the other girl’s hand a light squeeze.

“I- yeah. I’m fine,” Charlotte said absently, her hand creeping up to the Star of David around her neck. “The dark just freaks me out,”

In between them, their laced hands swung slightly, and the blonde felt somewhat lightheaded as she offered the other girl a small but sure grin. “Well, if there are ghosts around here, which there aren’t, I know you’ll kick their transparent asses,”

The Southerner had to laugh. “Fuck yeah, I will,” 

Just before the faint light from the campground streetlamps stopped slipping through the cracks between the trees, Whizzer stopped them, shrugging off his backpack. “Wait, before we keep going, you guys gotta be armed. Just over there is prime ghost territory,” he said gravely, pointing towards the dark abyss in the distance. He fished out what appeared to be a pair of binoculars with a strap attached from his bag. “Marv, you take the night vision goggles,”

The boy from Boston pulled a face, examining the gadget, almost dropping it due to its hefty weight. One of the cons of his dangerously-slender body was the weakness that came with it, he supposed. Not to mention the chills. It was a bitter night, and he felt every cold gust of wind slither quickly down his spine, even though Whizzer had insisted he wear his thermal shirt, and he’d gone to bed in one of his countless hoodies. Strapping the goggles to his head, Marvin rubbed his arms in an attempt to circulate some form of heat, sheepishly smiling when the taller of the boys sent a concerned look in his direction. He could tell his friend worried for him in the subtle things he did. From inviting him to family dinners, to giving him the remainder of his lunch when he “couldn’t finish” it, Whizzer was on his case. But he couldn’t know. Nobody could. “Okay, but the only thing I’m going to see with these is the ghosts laughing at me,”

Cordelia crossed her arms. “So he gets night vision goggles and I get some walkie-talkie?” 

“That’s a spirit box, dumbass. You use it to listen for spirits,”

“Shit, never mind. You have fun with your goggles, Marv,”

Charlotte was given the EMF sensor, Whizzer had another set of goggles, and they were on their way. The former had suggested splitting up, but that idea was promptly shot down. They ventured far into the forest, to the point where the campground and the soft lamps were a distant memory. Luckily, Whizzer had a compass buried somewhere in his trusty backpack. They spend a good hour or so exploring the deep crevasses of the woods, some areas registering eerie pitches or noises on the box, or faintly-coloured orbs on the camera and goggles that spooked all four of them out, while others gave them nothing. After getting past their initial fear, ghosthunting actually proved to be an enjoyable experience.

That was, until they heard a twig snap.

“Char, watch where you’re stepping, or we won’t be able to pick anything up,” Marvin hissed, listening intently as he clutched the spirit box.

Charlotte furrowed her brows. “That wasn’t me,”

“Wasn’t me or Dee either,” Whizzer said, raking a hand through his hair. “That’s weird,”

Yelping loudly, the blonde snatched up the box from Marvin and threw it on the floor, quickly stepping away. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy  _ fucking shit _ ,” 

“And someone kept complaining and saying that ghosts don’t exist,”

“Now is not the time, Whizzer!”

“Calm down, I’m sure it’s nothing,” Marvin said, his voice quivering. He pushed the goggles down over his eyes. “Shit, I can see a couple orbs over here,”

Immediately, Cordelia began to pace, running her fingers through her curls in a state of blind panic. “This is it,” she was whispering, rather loudly. “This is how I die,”

“If we die, tell my parents I love them!” Charlotte screamed into the abyss.

That was when they heard the laughing. It rang through the entire forest, and seemed to be originating from the thick boughs of a few nearby trees. The strangest part was, Whizzer could recognise it. 

“Oh, man, we got you guys so good!” 

“Jack?” Whizzer said in disbelief, craning his neck and shining his torch at the treetops. He could see a branch being pushed aside, and another flashlight shining down on him. Lo and behold, there was his brother and his cobalt hair. “Oh my God,”

The college student grinned. “We knew you guys would come out ghosthunting tonight, so we figured we’d make it worth your while,” he called down, shrugging, but faltered slightly at the angry looks of the four high schoolers. “I mean, it was Courteney’s idea,”

“Jack!” the third-oldest’s annoyed voice came from a different tree. “Yeah, uh, hi, you guys,”

Marvin began laughing uncontrollably, pulling off his night vision goggles and squinting up at the faces of the pair up in the trees. “I can’t believe you fuckers. Cordelia was about to go batshit,”

The mentioned girl nodded. “I’m literally traumatised, and it’s  _ all your fault _ ,” 

“You won’t tell Mama, will you?” Courteney chewed on her lip, heart beginning to hammer on seeing her youngest brother’s features slowly morph into a sly smirk.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it,” Whizzer said, turning on his heel and draping an arm around Marvin and Charlotte’s shoulders, his siblings’ desperate pleas falling on deaf ears as he and his friends set a course for the campsite. 

  
  


_ fin.  _


	13. (don’t you) forget about me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cordelia and whizzer look at colleges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!!! welcome to part thirteen of this mess djsjfje. i’ll admit, i didn’t think i’d get this far at first, because i didn’t have everything planned out and i was just impulsively starting another project because i felt like it 😔✌️. but! i’m actually really enjoying doing this, and each chapter is such a blast to write. the actual angsty part of this fic has yet to come, but i will say it’s soon-ish so keep your eyes peeled 👀. in the meantime, have some whizzer & cordelia!
> 
> before i go, this is just a reminder to keep signing petitions, donating, and educating yourselves and others on ways you can help support the black lives matter movement, and how you can help in bringing justice against the horrible discrimination being faced by the black community right now. stay safe when going to protests - wear unobtrusive clothing, cover as much skin as you can, bring milk and first aid equipment if things get out of hand. use your privilege to your advantage. this isn’t a time to just be “not racist”, but actively anti-racist. we’re all in this together. i’m not black, but i see you and i stand with you <3
> 
> that’s all for now, folks! enjoy the fic, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated, y’all don’t know how happy they make me :)

The second semester of senior year was in full swing, its unanticipated arrival bringing new and puzzling questions about scholarships, career paths, colleges, and exactly what the fuck they were supposed to do subsequent to their departure from the safety and seclusion of their childhood home. As the surviving few patches of grubby January snow gradually melted into a mild and pleasant spring, life on Campbell Street continued as usual. Charlotte’s eighteenth birthday came and went, celebrated raucously with a cake from Whizzer’s mother and a heartfelt attempt at latkes from the apologetic Thompson family. However, with midterms on the horizon, and the daunting idea of university fresh in the minds of every child, the carefree joy of a birthday celebration was short-lived, replaced by a somber air that depressed even the cawing pigeons perched on streetlamps. Everyone, including Charlotte, who’d only just arrived in New York that summer, had been putting off even glancing at the college flyers retrieved for them by their insistent parents, mostly because the prospect of being all alone in a new city, or even state, without the best friends that lived just across the road by their side, petrified them even more than tuition fees or lectures or doing well in lessons, but none more so than Cordelia. 

She’d lived in the very same white townhouse with the bright yellow door since birth, watching her once-deserted neighbourhood come to life as more people, starting with a certain half-Jewish boy from all the way in the Midwest, moved into the empty, dead houses. Unbeknownst to little Cordelia, who’d only had her parents and brother and the nuns at the local Catholic school for company, there were adventures and mysteries and many meetings to come. The Starbucks runs, pool parties, midnight trips to abandoned buildings - how could she just hop on a plane and throw it all away? Slowly but surely, as she settled into college life in an entirely new place, she’d start to forget the little things, like Whizzer’s favourite lunch-line dessert, or the grotesque colour of Karen Feldman’s corduroy pantsuit she’d wear when picking up Marvin’s brother from school. She’d immerse herself in a new circle of people who were just as confused about the whole university thing as she was, and before long her ‘friends back in Rochester’ would become a fond but distant memory. 

It was a Friday night, around four weeks before their midterm exams began. Cordelia had Whizzer over at her house for one of their numerous unplanned sleepovers. They’d become tradition back in eighth grade, when he’d show up at her doorstep clutching an overnight bag, a hopeful look on his face. All she could do was nod solemnly and invite him in, and they’d sit on the pair of hammocks her father had installed for the pair in the backyard whenever the Browns had first moved from Nebraska until their eyes drooped shut. Three years later, they’d become so commonplace that even Caroline and George, her parents, weren’t fazed when they heard Whizzer’s voice in the hall, or when they’d open their pantry the next morning to find that a good portion of the food inside had been cleared out. That night, however, they weren’t on their hammocks, but on the floor of the girl’s well-decorated bedroom, poring over the abundance of college flyers in their possession. 

“Have you thought about where you’re gonna apply yet?” the blonde queried, twirling the end of her braid around one finger while eyeing a flyer for her mom’s college, St John Fisher. 

“Anywhere that’ll take me, really,” Whizzer shrugged, voice muffled by his mouthful of Goldfish crackers. All his family had attended decent, if not exemplar, universities. But then again, nearly none of them suffered from dyslexia. Sure, his uncle David did and still made it into Stanford, but Whizzer had a feeling his case was going to be different. Although they tried not to show it, his family worried greatly about their son’s future; as a result, they’d collected flyers from USC to Penn State, in the hopes they’d find somewhere for him. “Probably nowhere special. You?”

“California could be fun, but it’s so far away,”

At this, Whizzer brightened. “I’ll come with you! We can be that one frat boy and sorority girl that everyone thinks are a thing, but are actually flaming homosexuals,” he said, excitement evident in his tone. He’d heard the stereotypes about frat boys, and definitely watched enough films to know how girls in sororities were perceived, his views only changing when his sister Courteney joined one at UCLA, and told him about all the kind-hearted boys and girls part of Greek letter societies. 

“Sounds like one of those stupid rom-coms you watch,” the blonde sniggered, before her dejected expression resurfaced. Whizzer could sense something was amiss about his closest childhood friend, but couldn’t for the life of him think why. 

“Excuse you, my film taste is immaculate,”

“I’m surprised you know what that means,”

“Oh, go suck an egg,” 

Raising her eyebrows in halfhearted response, she returned to her brochures, reluctant eyes lingering on one advertising some university in Ohio, her father’s home state. She had family living there, but something in her gut made her pull a face and put the shiny flyer back down on the carpet that, once upon a time, had been white, but turned an unappealing grey as the years dragged on. The years spent in the same house, on the same street, with the same people. You’d think she’d be yearning to get out of Rochester after living there for eighteen years, with no real change coming into her life aside from switching to the public school from the Catholic one in seventh grade, and her friends moving into the neighbouring houses. On the contrary, it felt somewhat inappropriate to start anew somewhere else. The girls she’d be forced to befriend in her sorority house wouldn’t clean out her fridge, nor would they accompany her on adventures to various abandoned structures around town to catch Bigfoot, dressed in their fathers’ fisherman hats and clutching unplugged lamps and phone chargers as weapons. 

“Tell me what’s wrong,” came Whizzer’s voice, soft but clear beside her. 

“What? Nothing’s w-” 

“No, don’t pull that shit on me. We’ve been friends for thirteen years, I can tell when you’re upset,” he said earnestly, shifting closer. His brows furrowed in confusion and concern when he was met with silence. “Cordelia?”

Cordelia snivelled, shaking her hair from her eyes. “I don’t want to leave. What if I make new friends and forget you and the others, a-and all the cool things we did together? I guess… I guess when you’ve lived here your entire life, you never really thought anything would change. But now that it is, it’s scary. I just want everything to stay the same,” 

“Dee, c’mere,” Whizzer muttered softly, pulling her into a one-armed hug as she dissolved into a fit of quiet sobs. “I’ll never forget you. Remember the day we met, and you and your mom showed up at my house with that kick-ass casserole? Or when we’d sit in the hammocks in the yard and talk about that crappy 1800s show about the girl with the red hair you made me watch?”

“Anne with an E?” she said, cerulean eyes meeting her friend’s kind brown gaze. 

“That one. See? It’s so shitty, I don’t even remember the title,”

“Wow, and you say your taste in media is immaculate,”

“It is!” Whizzer said indignantly. “My point is, people don’t just forget shit like that. If you do go away, I’ll text you so much that you’ll be glad you left. But, if it makes you feel any better, I asked around. Most of us want to stay here in New York, just go down to the city,”

“It does,” Dee affirmed, and she meant it. Instead of frightening her, the prospect of embracing a new chapter of her life down in the bustling, noisy New York City filled her body with a tingling feeling of excitement. Because maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t be all alone after all. “Thanks, Whizzer,”

“Hey, it’s no problem. Now, I think I deserve an apology for your unnecessary comments on my Netflix taste,”

“If I make you a banana split, will you forget about it?”

“Two, and you’re forgiven,”

“Deal,”

  
  
_ fin.  _


	14. midnight by the fence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cordelia leaves a note in charlotte’s locker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! it’s currently 1 am and i finally managed to get this completed? i’m not too sure how i feel about it just yet, but!!! something happened!!! i know this fic has kinda been dragging on for a bit, and nothing big has really actually happened, but i promise we’re getting to the ✨angst✨ pretty darn soon. in the meantime, take this chardelia! i really hope this isn’t too cringe, i’m pretty sure we can all tell i’m not very good at this sort of thing lmao. 
> 
> have yourselves a wonderful day/night! stan the lesbians pls and thank you okay bye
> 
> please keep signing petitions and donating however you can to support the blm movement! this is not just a social media trend - never stop raising awareness. black lives matter today, tomorrorw, and for the rest of time. 
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!!! i genuinely get so happy reading all of them <33

The bell’s cacophonous peal rang with persistence throughout the vast redbrick building, signifying the long-awaited conclusion of second period classes, which, in a relieved Charlotte’s case, was a monotonous and highly-violating World History lesson, conducted by a teacher who appeared to believe that dropping not-so-subtle implicative jests during a lesson on the Holocaust was appropriate. Following that class was a scheduled five-minute lesson changeover before she’d be settled at her five-person table in the English hallway, prepared for another day of reviewing and revisiting key moments in the story of the March sisters. Ignoring the teacher’s droning about some form of essay they were to complete for homework, Charlotte stepped into the jungle that was the hallway with Mendel in tow, allowing herself to be shaken and jostled as she pushed and shoved her way to her locker. 

Truth be told, she hadn’t been listening to the presentation, partly out of rebellion against the teacher’s unwarranted comments, and partly due to another factor entirely. Ever since the camping trip, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. The burning feeling in her stomach, the butterflies in her stomach, the carefree feeling of elation in her heart, and the list continued. What could it all point to? See, the problem was, she knew fine well what it pointed to, but the information was too alarming for her to come to terms with. Then again, if she stopped playing games and mustered up the courage to confess, it would only be a few fleeting moments of discomfort, before she could finally be at peace with the strange monster of emotions inside her. It was tempting, but just not enough for Charlotte to face the music. Jeez, even the very thought gave her shudders.

“What are you guys even doing in AP?” the curly-haired New Yorker asked, leaning against the lockers as he waited for her to retrieve her belongings so they could walk together, before parting ways at the staircase that led to English, her going to her AP class and him setting a course for Spanish. “Does Mrs Chapman fail you if you haven’t used the word ‘hence’ twenty-seven times?” 

Charlotte blinked repeatedly, the messy locker in front of her cloudy eyes a gentle reminder of where she was. Confusedly, she looked over at Mendel with an eyeroll and a grin, slipping her hefty yellow English binder from one of the shelves. “That’s a new one. Out of all the rumours about her class, I haven’t heard that one yet,”

“Hey, what’s that?” Mendel pointed at a folded-up piece of notebook paper pinned to the tiny corkboard on the inside of the locker’s door. Charlotte’s name was penned on the front, in a familiar script that only made the girl’s hands tremble. Exhaling heavily, she removed it from the board, chewing on her lip as the paper was slowly unfolded. “What’s it say?” he pressed, more than a little concerned.

_ Meet me at the white fence tonight at 12. We need to talk. _

  * _C.T_



“The fence? Isn’t that the one around Dee’s house?”

Charlotte didn’t respond, not even caring when the bell’s second toll warned her that she was late for class. Mendel was onto something. And she only knew one person with those initials.

Midnight crept nearer and nearer. Bouncing anxiously on her toes, she stood outside her house. In perhaps a cooler month, she’d have arranged to admit her feelings in a warmer setting, but she discovered that the Rochester spring was relatively pleasant, despite the chilly undertones that made her rub her arms underneath her thin, pink dressing gown. All was quiet and calm, save for the occasional convertible or Jeep cruising past and blasting ear-splitting music, the passengers mostly people she recognised from her grade. It was only three minutes past twelve at that point, but she began to dishearten, her face worried and crestfallen as she kept an eye on the time. What if she never came? What if she’d be left standing in the cold for the entire night? What if-

“Cordelia?”

“You got my note!” 

Charlotte held a flashlight, and the hood of her sweatshirt was drawn over her tousled curls. The lettering of some Alabama baseball team was emblazoned on the front. Cordelia remembered being told it once belonged to the girl’s father. She seemed bewildered, and the perturbation in her dark eyes was conspicuous, practically illuminated by the flashlight she held close to her head. At least she wasn’t alone in her fear. The blonde smiled through her nerves. Maybe she could do this. 

“What did you want to talk about?” As if she didn’t know already.

Cordelia faltered. Fuck. Maybe she couldn’t.

“Is everything alright?” the Southerner prompted. She wasn’t sure why she was putting on this oblivious facade. Both of them knew the reason why the borderline-ominous note was written, and why the pair currently stood, unspeaking, in front of a fence, the silence being broken only by the gentle, hushed ripples of Cordelia’s covered swimming pool. Her heart hammered, waiting on tenterhooks for the moment when one of them would just open their mouths and  _ say it.  _ “Look. I think we both know why we’re here,”

“I don’t know what happened at the campsite, or the time we went shopping for your room,” Cordelia muttered, regret seeping into her voice as she tugged on her sleeves. Keep going, she attempted to tell herself. It certainly may not seem like it, but writing the note wasn’t a poor or hasty decision on her part. Even if things went south, at least they’d tried. At least they’d had the conversation. “But something isn’t the same,”

“It’s not a bad kind of different… not to me, at least,” Charlotte said, furrowing her brows. Pushing the hood of her sweatshirt down, she ran a hand through her hair and sighed. Nobody would get anywhere if they continued to skirt around the subject. Not to mention, time was ticking - if either of their parents caught wind of their daughters’ awkward rendezvous, both were sure to wind up in grave trouble. “Do you want to say it at the same time? Just…. for clarification?”

“Three,”

“Two,”

“One,”

This was it. It wasn’t just a bedtime fantasy, or a fearful classroom daydream. Not anymore. This was reality. 

“I think I like you,”

Neither knew how, but they ended up in one another’s tight embrace, lips locked. The trees and telephone poles and mailboxes distorted together in a tornado of muted colours, the world spinning like a top around the pair, who kissed with passion and, quite frankly, relief. The overwhelming trepidation and uneasiness they’d felt for the prior ten minutes had vanished, replaced with a new excitement that neither could fathom nor explain. 

“Do you want to do something this weekend? Saturday, maybe?” Cordelia bit her lip, her cheeks aching from how brightly she beamed, warm rays of elation and optimism ricocheting from her body and providing light for all of Rochester. 

“As long as it’s after synagogue,” the dark-haired of the two laughed, swiping a stray tear from her eye. “Then, it’s a date,”

  
  


_ fin.  _


	15. don't call pythagoras an asshole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trina tutors mendel in math.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did not keep an eye on the time while i wrote this and i am coming to you from my bed at 2 in the morning  
> anyways, hello! welcome to chapter 15 of the mess that is this entire fucking au. i actually had so much fun writing this, and i loved sprinkling in a little trans mendel content at the start! i'm lowkey kind of nervous to post this for that reason specifically, mostly because i'm scared i'll come off as insensitive or offensive as a straight, cis person. if that is the case, i'm truly very sorry. please do tell me, and i will ensure to fix any mistakes - i am always looking to better myself and become more understanding :)
> 
> remember to keep signing petitions, donating whatever you can, and using any platforms you have to raise awareness for the blm movement!! it is crucial that we keep using our voices until justice is served for the barbaric things the police have done. please stay safe out there, i see you and i care about you <33
> 
> enjoy the fic!! comments and kudos are greatly appreciated, they mean so much :)
> 
> tw: mentioned/implied body dysphoria

For the seventeenth time in a span of twenty minutes, Mendel glanced at his timid reflection in the dirty, full-length looking glass affixed to his closet door, praying to every superior deity or being out there that he’d scrubbed off any stray remnants of gleaming perspiration that still clung to his face and decidedly out-of-shape body in the shower; the aftermath of a particularly strenuous dance call for Fiddler. He didn’t typically apply much thought into the ensembles or garments he wore, but rather selected an assortment of eclectic items that would do a passable job of masking the figure that was the subject of a large capacity of his self-esteem qualms and gender dysphoria. Whether he liked it or not, Mendel could assertively declare that his body was home to several newfound accoutrements after three years of binding and testosterone shots that had no business being as daunting as they were. The acne surrounding his cheeks and jawline was, without question, unwelcomed (as well as the extra fat around his abdomen, but that was something he’d begrudgingly come to accept) but countless pharmacies and dubious-looking tubs of cream cleared the spots up for the most part. On the bright side, he was thrilled by his face’s more angular shape, and enjoyed exploring his expanded vocal range’s dulcet lower notes. Mendel knew fine well that his problems regarding his body and his self-confidence were far from over, but it was a start. And, to be perfectly candid, he was rather proud of himself.

Today was no exception to his haphazard sense of dress, despite his attempts to clean up that had only resulted in various questionable, vexed noises and painfully tearing out small clumps of his wild hair. Trina would be arriving in around fifteen minutes to help with the puzzling math homework he definitely hadn’t put off doing for as long as he could afford to, and the very last thing Mendel wanted was for her to think him slovenly or scruffy. It was strange - he wouldn’t have cared if it were Marvin or Charlotte, but Trina was different. She always appeared so composed and tidy, with her hairpins and neatly-trimmed fringe and simple dresses in muted, dull colours, that it made the boy resonate rather deeply with the stains he’d sometimes come across on his bright, busy shirts, or the grit on the back of his well-loved brogues. He’d settled on a freshly-laundered pair of jeans, one of the few in his closet that weren’t previously owned by either of his brothers, and a larger T-shirt underneath one of his myriad of cardigans. God knew his mother would yap at him for not dressing presentably enough, especially for a guest as pristine as Trina, but that was the least of his problems. 

No, his biggest problem was getting down the stairs to answer the door without spontaneously combusting along the way. 

“Afternoon, Trin,” he said, trying to refrain from wiping his hands on his trousers. Gosh, it was like she’d dressed abnormally nicely for him especially. What he didn’t know was that, in actuality, she had. It took her twice as long as it should have for her to pick something out, mostly because she’d squabbled with her mother for ten minutes straight on the length of her skirt, but that was due to the fact that she didn’t like the idea of Mendel’s family perceiving her as plain, or like she was incapable of having fun. In the end, she’d conceded, leaving Trina curious as to just how far she could push the boundaries with her mother’s rules on modest dressing. 

The girl swept her fringe from her eyes. Her simply-patterned backpack was strapped to her shoulders, carrying her math textbook and a number of other materials required for their undoubtedly-awkward tutoring session. “Hey,” she said, offering him a smile. “How was rehearsal?”

Mendel practically shuddered at the thought of him flailing about onstage in his jazz shoes and a few costume pieces that the wardrobe crew were trying out, to the amusement of anyone present in the auditorium, from the backstage team to the giggling music teacher accompanying their sorry attempt at dancing on the aged, untuned school piano. “Scarring,”

Trina laughed, shuffling over the threshold and wiping her impeccable Chuck Taylors on the welcome mat. “I can imagine. You have the stamina of a fucking wrinkled grape,”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Mendel cried shrilly, visibly affronted as he followed the sniggering girl into the dining room, where they laid out their various supplies on the elongated table. To Mendel, it felt somewhat humiliating to be struggling with a unit that she’d understood perfectly since the introductory lesson, during which he’d simply squinted at the whiteboard in a futile attempt to wrap his head around the perplexing diagrams and symbols. It wasn’t that he was stupid - in fact, Mendel rather enjoyed the process of calculating answers or solving problems. That was, when he knew what the shit he was meant to do. And if derogatory Mr Johnson, the sneering, formidable Calculus teacher that’d seemingly worked at Highland Ridge since the beginning of time and was notorious amongst both the staff and student body, could be understood by at least one person, then maybe there was still hope for Mendel’s semester grade. “I shit you not, this man is killing me slowly,” he groaned as he flipped to the correct page. 

“You’re not alone,” Trina raised her eyebrows, tongue between her teeth as she copied out a few example questions in font-like penmanship. “He probably has the tombstones of previous students in his yard, or something like that,”

Grinning, Mendel moved slightly from his slumped position in one of the uncomfortable wooden dining chairs. “How old do you think he is?”

“Dee told me he was around when her mom went to our school,” she whispered, toying with one of the small butterfly clips in her copper hair. 

“The bastard’s probably not even alive. His ghost is teaching us unnecessary Calculus crap-”

Trina pointed an accusing pen at him, jabbing him playfully in the chest with its clicking tip. “May I point out that you’re the one that  _ chose  _ to take Calculus?”

“Because it seemed like the easiest option,” he said, like it were obvious. “Holy shit, was I wrong. But the real Mr Johnson is up there, I don’t know, throwing a rave with Pythagoras, the asshole,”

Rolling her eyes, Trina shook her head, returning to her list of example questions. There was never a dull moment with Mendel, and she always arrived home after an eventful visit with the Weisenbachfelds with her dinner spoiled (Estelle would drone on for hours about how thin and slight she seemed, feeding her decently-large quantities of saltine crackers and cheese as she did so), still fondly smiling at some silly joke he’d cracked while they sat in the sturdy treehouse in the backyard that Trina could almost call home. She remembered how badly he wanted her to audition for that year’s musical before they graduated, and how guilty she felt at not being able to share his joy and passion for theatre due to her mother’s strict, austere demands. Nevertheless, they still drove back from his rehearsals in the Aronowitz family car sometimes, as well as walk to their shared homeroom together, giggling in their nine AM delusion over his bizarre choice of sock that day. Time with Mendel was always time well spent, and Trina found herself sincerely hoping she wouldn’t lose contact with him if they did indeed part ways for university, as much as they both wanted to move down to the city. “Hey, don’t call Pythagoras an asshole,”

“Why? Because he discovered some bullshit about triangles?”

“I- yeah, whatever you say, ‘Del,” she sighed, sliding the sheet of questions she’d been writing on over to him. “Now come on, let’s actually get started,”

Thus, the educational portion of their little sessions began, complete with much confusion, sighing, re-explanation, and laughter. Mendel felt a particular joy that he couldn’t exactly explain when he doorbell rang if she was expected, and always delighted in their visits, but there was something different about their one-on-one study sessions that felt different, in the greatest possible way. And you can bet your ass he understood the unit crystal-clear by the time he waved her off as she skipped down the driveway, throwing a winning smile in his direction before she disappeared into her home. 

  
  


_ fin. _


	16. salmonella is not a myth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the gang bake a cake for cordelia's eighteenth birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!! i hope you're all doing well! holy shit we're at part seventeen fndfjhdjrfhsj
> 
> when i started planning this au, i remember being really really excited to write this fic. i don't know why, but i always get particularly excited for specific chapters when i do projects, and this was one of them! i had an absolute blast writing this, so i hope you like it! a side note about the birth dates i chose, i'm not exactly sure if they line up with their personalities in terms of zodiac signs because i know next to nothing about astrology (i had to use a website when coming up with them and even then i wasn't sure on them) but i'm not bothered to change them so please do not Come For Me i'm sensitive 😔✌️. 
> 
> please keep signing petitions and reposting crucial information pertaining to the blm movement!! this is far from over, we have to keep fighting for justice against such a horrid and corrupt system. stay safe at protests, black lives matter!!!
> 
> (side note, i finished sherlock yesterday so if anyone's into that feel free to dm me on ye olde insta @sarahistrying i have a lot of feelings)
> 
> anyway i'll stop rambling now, i'm sorry. comments and kudos are always appreciated, they make me insanely happy :D
> 
> tw : mentioned eating disorders

Birthdays on Campbell Street had always been a tumultuous affair, ever since its only inhabitants were Whizzer, Cordelia, and their respective families. A splendid celebration would be hosted at the Price-Brown residence, painstakingly decorated by all eight members of the kindly, hospitable household. Serving as a makeshift stereo was Phillip Thompson’s computer, reluctantly spared for the evening’s festivities. Somehow, Jack and Courteney managed to get into an argument over the other’s music choices every year without fail. Their heated, amusing squabbles had become so commonplace, to the extent that, unbeknownst to the incensed pair, other guests would place wagers over how long they’d last before one of their notorious fights broke out. The wine in the kitchen cupboard was heavily monitored by the present adults that attended for alcohol and supervision of the children, but mostly alcohol. All of them were permanently scarred after the events of Trina’s sixteenth birthday two years ago, when someone cleared an entire bottle of bourbon of all its contents, and the culprit was promptly revealed after Whizzer had bumped into a total of four people and knocked over his mother’s best vase, all the while incoherently yelling at Mendel about something or other. The evening’s celebrations only came to a conclusion when the grownups, positively wine-drunk, stumbled off home, all the food on the snack table and in the pantry was demolished, and every child was out cold in various rooms around the house. 

But by far, the most memorable part was the atmosphere. The hearty, merry laughter as Mendel fruitlessly attempted the Macarena, or when Trina’s tall, lanky frame couldn’t fit under the pole (Kevin’s shower curtain rod, but you get the idea) while they played Limbo. As they basked in the relieving atmosphere and the company of one another, they couldn’t help but forget about their perturbation for next week’s quiz, or their bubbling anger towards some pupil because of an unnecessary comment. Hell, some of the neighbourhood’s most treasured memories had first occurred at the pleasant, yet highly chaotic parties held at Whizzer’s house. Most of the planning was done by Cordelia and her family, as a form of gratitude to their neighbours for bringing so much joy and life and blissful spontaneity to the quiet road that the two Thompson children had lived on since birth. Without them, there would have been no uproarious celebrations, and, consequently, no fond reminiscence on past events. 

That was why, Whizzer explained to his friends in the blonde’s absence, he was determined to bake a spectacular cake for Dee’s eighteenth birthday, which fell on that very day of April sixteenth, and ceremoniously present it to her at the party happening later on.

His idea was met with mixed reception, since everyone currently standing in his kitchen had little to no knowledge of how to use an electric mixer, let alone a goddamn oven, and the only person that  _ did  _ was, well, Cordelia. 

“You’re telling me you want us to bake a cake?” Charlotte clarified, frowning at the complex strawberry cake recipe her friend had printed out for the five of them to follow. “And not some, like, Betty Crocker bullshit. An actual cake. From scratch,”

Marvin stood on tiptoe, peering at the ingredient list from over her shoulder. “Whizzer, I don’t even know what strawberry reduction is,”

“That, my dear Marvin, is what Google and my mom are for,” Whizzer grinned broadly, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he produced a plethora of ingredients from the fridge and the cupboards that he’d asked his mother to purchase for the purpose of his and his friends’ indubitably-unsuccessful baking endeavours, and unceremoniously dumped them on the counter. “Let’s bake us a fucking strawberry cake,”

Trina bit her lip, eyeing the ingredients like they wielded a dangerous weapon. “I have a bad feeling about this,”

And on that note, they got to work. Whizzer had strategically paired them up so the individuals possessing more competence in the kitchen could assist the ones that were less so. Trina and Charlotte were in charge of wet ingredients, Marvin and Whizzer had dry, and an affronted Mendel preheated the oven and lined the tin, because the others were in unanimous agreement that he was not to go near the cake proceedings under any circumstances. 

“I still don’t understand why we have to mix the dry and wet ingredients separately,” Whizzer said, attempting to wash out the flour he’d somehow got into his hair as his baking partner vigorously whisked together the dry ingredients, more of it clinging to his face and clothes than actually in the bowl. Although he’d never say so, it surprised him - Marvin always appeared so weak and sickly, and most of the time, he was. Gym class had never been an enjoyable experience for the guy, but at least he could pick up the weighted shot put without his knees on the verge of buckling before he’d tripped and plummeted down a dark, deep hole of self-loathing and cheery facades and eating disorders. Whizzer watched as he continued to stir the ingredients, probably fretting over the number of calories inside that bowl of flour and baking powder alone. God knew he looked far worse than he had whenever the year had first began. He felt terrible, just watching as his friend’s health regressed. All of them did. But they didn’t have enough proof to please a judge or a lawyer, and Marvin certainly wasn’t about to see a nutritionist. Not when his mother was in charge of him. Still, there had to be something they could do to help, whether that be bringing him lunches for school, snacks at rehearsal, or simply just being his friends. 

“Neither do I. But if I’m being honest, I really don’t want to find out,” Marvin said, grinning slightly as he set the bowl down on the table and brushing the debris from his shirt.

“You still have flour in your hair,” Mendel piped from his station, passive-aggressively lining the cake tin with greaseproof paper and occasionally complaining about how ‘unjust’ and ‘despicable’ the entire process was. 

Scowling, the tallest of the group stuck his sopping chestnut locks underneath the messy kitchen tap once more. “Are you shitting me? I poured the entire goddamn  _ ocean _ on my head, and there’s still flour in it?” 

Around half an hour later, the dry and wet solutions were combined with the help of the electric mixer, and was ready to be placed in the tin that Mendel had lined with surprising meticulousness. Actually combining the two mixtures proved to be a loud and frenzied process. Charlotte had accidentally slipped a sliver of egg yolk into the mixture, and it was pandemonium as the others screamed at her to get it out while she dug around the bowl with a spoon. Over the loud whir of the mixer, Trina yelled out the instructions for adding the milk and sugar, while the remaining four puzzled over how long to wait before pouring in more (“What does ‘gradually’ mean?” Whizzer had shrieked in alarm). In the end, however, they were left with something vaguely resembling cake mix, so the five considered that a win itself. 

“Holy shit, that looks amazing. We don’t even need to put it in the oven, we can just bring that to the party,” Mendel said, his chin resting in his hand as he watched Marvin carefully pour the mixture into the tin. 

“I don’t want to give Dee salmonella, Mendel,” Charlotte grimaced, although she was trying very hard to fight back a snicker. 

“That’s actually a thing?”

Trina’s eyes widened in confusion, astonishment and infatuation all at the same time. “....Yes?” 

“I genuinely thought that was a myth. Like, something your mom would tell you so you wouldn’t eat the mixture,”

“Salmonella is not a myth, Mendel,” Marvin laughed, slipping on a pair of oven gloves. He placed the cake in the oven, closing the door and dusting off his hands when he took the gloves off. 

“What now?” Charlotte said, slapping Whizzer’s hand away from the tub of buttercream icing his mother had bought, the aggressive post-it note she’d deliberately stuck on the front to prevent her son from eating half the tub himself lying forgotten on the table. 

“Now, we wait, and hope it doesn’t taste like shit,” Trina said, checking the clock on the wall and smiling softly. They had plenty of time to spare. 

Spoiler alert: it didn’t taste like shit. 

  
  


_ fin.  _


	17. slumber party/the downstairs bathroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> desperate to get out of the house, marvin spends the night at whizzer's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! i'm sorry this chapter took longer than anticipated, i've just been in my own little world for the past few days and wasn't really up to writing for this au, but i'm here now, and i have some angst >:)  
> i hadn't really planned on the proper angst starting here, but i suppose it could if you read it that way? i guess it can be a buildup of sorts, because the actual angst i had planned is coming really soon (i know i say that a lot but i actually mean it this time ajfnsjcfhndnh) 👀
> 
> i really hope you enjoy this, and it isn't too all over the place? it's a bit longer that i'd have liked but it's alright lmao
> 
> please keep advocating for black lives matter!!! don't stop talking about it, our fight doesn't end here. sign petitions, do whatever you can! no justice no peace. 
> 
> tw : child abuse, eating disorders, bruises, scales, mentions of weight  
> if these things trigger you, please be careful!! <3
> 
> i'm sorry in advance fjdjfjf

His faulty, battered computer warm against his spindly legs, Marvin sat on the narrow twin bed located on his side of the shared bedroom, bony fingers hovering with uncertainty over the keyboard as the well-oiled cogs in his overworked brain whirred and crunched over his second college essay application of the evening. _Reflect on a time when you questioned or challenged a belief or idea_. Well, he could assertively declare that he had plenty to say on this particular topic. The intimidating metal scale in the downstairs bathroom. The ominous chart on the wall that monitored every pound lost or gained. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep the secret lunches prepared by Whizzer’s doting mother, or his friends’ little snacks here and there - the numbers were going up, and his mother was on his case more than ever. Nevertheless, Marvin chewed on his busted lip in deep thought, only slightly wincing as he did so; his mother wouldn’t appreciate the clicking cameras and deafening police sirens and child services officials that would inevitably appear at their doorstep if he submitted a truthful essay. His lip twinged, but he did his best to disregard it. His pain tolerance was improving, meaning he was able to suppress any hurt or emotions relatively convincingly. If he was being honest, Marvin didn’t know whether or not to take pride in his newfound ability. 

Beyond the navy-coloured drapes situated behind Emmett’s cluttered desk, the blood-orange sun began its descent behind the houses and telephone poles and lightly-swaying trees. Sunset meant dinnertime. And dinnertime meant lingering up in his room with the door shut, so he couldn’t hear the loud clatter of plates and silverware or merry laughter at some corny anecdote, nor could he smell the enticing aroma of his mother’s frankly-delectable dishes. His head swam with a thousand and one things. Deadlines, assignments, arrangements, depressing thoughts, hunger pangs. That last one was the worst. On some days, he could ignore them. His secret lunch at school was enough to tide him over until the egg and sausage biscuit left for him in the paper bag with his name penned on the front by the saint-like lady his friend had the privilege of calling a mother. On other days, on bad days, they gnawed hungrily at his insides like a formidable beast, and he’d have to abandon his homework to lie weakly on his bed and stare up at the cracked ceiling, because that was all he could do. Of course, his family wouldn’t understand that. Marvin could bet all the money in the college fund he’d been building up since fourth grade that not one of his family members had ever experienced hunger like he had. 

“Thanks for dinner, Mom!” he heard his brother holler as he bounded up the stairs. Emmett was a sophomore, hardworking and bashful, but could also give you a reality check should it be required. Not extremely different, Marvin resentfully admitted, to himself. Neither sibling was highly popular or well-known amongst the student body, but it did bring a guilty smirk to the elder’s face when he heard Emmett being referred to by both the faculty and the children as 'Marvin Feldman’s little brother'. “Evening, Marv,” Emmett said slowly, wringing his hands as he loitered awkwardly by his older sibling’s neatly-made bed. Things had changed between them, ever since he was an eighth grader. The brother he idolised and admired grew reticent and sullen, refusing to go for walks around the neighbourhood or play video games like they did in the past. He was also spending increasingly-long hours in the toilet, and something told Emmett that it wasn’t always to relieve himself. 

“Hm,” was the only answer he received. 

“What, uh, what are you working on?” Emmett queried, attempting to open up a conversation. The occasions on which they properly spoke were few and far-between, and the younger had learned to cherish them like they were a rare, fine treasure. 

“College essay,”

“Nice. What school?”

“NYU,”

Emmett frowned. “Didn’t Mom say-”

“I don’t  _ care  _ what Mom said, Emmett,” Marvin snapped, and swung his legs off the side of the bed. Rummaging through the messy closet, he located his red overnight bag and a pair of Chuck Taylors that were on their last legs, the stitches fraying and the unobtrusive little cartoons he’d drawn on them to calm him down after one of his bathroom meltdowns slowly chipping away. He stuffed a cable-knit and a fresh pair of jeans inside, as well as his form of pajamas, making a mental note to grab his toothbrush on the way out. What he’d said wasn’t entirely true - he did care what his mom said and thought. In fact, he was positively petrified of applying to his dream college against her will. He kept convincing himself over and over that it was what he wanted. There was no way in hell he’d go back to Boston and attend Harvard. Not a chance. 

“Where are you going?”

No response. 

Whizzer was helping his mother clear the table after dinner, when they heard the cheery toll of the doorbell. The pair exchanged bewildered glances - they hadn’t expected visitors, certainly not after dinner. Wiping his hands on his high-waisted jeans, the boy strode through the hallway to their blue door. He opened it tentatively and his eyes widened, wavering as they took in his friend’s hunched shoulders and overnight bag, as well as the obvious bruising on his hollowed-out cheeks and sharp jaw, and rimming his twitching left eye. 

“What’s she done to you now?” he hissed, but knew better than to ask. Wordlessly, he invited the boy in, throwing his mother a concerned look as they passed her in the kitchen. In that fleeting moment, she seemed to understand what he was trying to say, and made for the kitchen to whip up the quickest meal she could. 

They sat silently on his bed for several minutes as the moon rose, neither boy knowing what to say or how to go about starting conversation without the topic of the elephant in the room arising. Whizzer could see his friend’s shoulders sagging, exhaling heavily as he clutched one of his throw pillows to his chest. He seemed less burdened, his crystal-blue eyes less worried behind his glasses. Mistily, Whizzer smiled to himself. To Marvin, the Price-Brown house was a secure place, a safe haven where he was welcomed and paid attention to for the right reasons. He’d visited the Feldman residence once, when Karen was out on a business trip in their Massachusetts hometown. Marvin hadn’t seemed too eager to give him a tour of the place, and he couldn’t help but notice how he was told to use the upstairs bathroom when he asked, because the toilet downstairs was ‘leaking’. Whizzer wasn't convinced for a minute, but he didn’t dare bring it up. The alcohol closet was suspiciously bare, and he could have sworn he’d heard the unmistakable sound of glass shattering from the basement. Although he loved spending time with Marvin, Whizzer hadn’t enjoyed his visit. He still wanted to know the secret of the downstairs bathroom, however. 

In the end, Whizzer chose not to pry about the bruising. For the moment, at least. “Mom’ll be up with snacks in a second. Do you want to watch a show, or something? Dee’s been begging me to finish that crappy one from the 1800s she likes,”

Marvin brightened a little, chuckling quietly. “I’ll tell her you said that on Monday,” he threatened teasingly, throwing the pillow he held at his friend. “She’ll assassinate you,”

“I’d rather you didn’t do that,” Whizzer laughed, shielding his head from contact with the pillow. “Dee scares me sometimes,”

“I’ll tell her you said that, too,”

“Marvin Feldman, I swear to absolute  _ fuck _ -”

“Okay, fine, your secret’s safe with me,” he said, miming zipping his lips shut and throwing away the key. He budged up closer to Whizzer, who cautiously draped an arm around his shoulders, internally pumping his fist when the scrawnier boy didn’t flinch or pull away, but melted into his loving touch. “Let’s watch Dee’s show. I want to know what you’re complaining about,”

The pair cuddled together on the couch, they marathoned the final season, finishing at around eleven-thirty at night with the baseball player practically begging his friend to leave Cordelia ignorant of the fact that he’d bawled like a baby during the final episode, when Anne left Green Gables for college. When his mother had brought up a plate of sandwiches and cookies baked in the way she knew Marvin liked best (crunchy on the outside, soft on the inside), Whizzer crafted a strategy. He’d still eat, but somehow allow Marvin to finish most of it without his noticing, because God knew he needed it. That was how he and his friends and family typically went about getting him to eat something. It was probably some form of manipulation, but it was good manipulation. And that wasn’t so bad, right?

By the time midnight rolled around, and Whizzer was prepping Jack’s childhood bed for his guest to sleep on, he noticed Marvin seemed troubled. Like he wanted to say something, but he wasn’t sure if he should. “I, uh, have a first aid kit in the downstairs bathroom. I can fix up, uh, those,” Here, he pointed vaguely at his own cheeks and jawline. “If you want,”

_ Downstairs bathroom. _

_ “It’s that stupid boy Andrew’s mother from next door, isn’t it? She’s why the numbers are going up?” _

_ Marvin gritted his teeth. “He isn’t stupid,” _

_ She scoffed. “I heard through the grapevine he’s failing Honours English. Such an easy class, too,” _

_ “He’s dyslex-” _

_ “What have I told you about talking back?” _

“Next thing I knew, I woke up on the bathroom floor,” Marvin recounted, not even flinching as the baseball player tended to his bruises. He didn’t respond, but the smaller of the two noticed his featured hardening. “Everything okay, Whizzer?”

The mentioned boy laughed dryly, finishing his duties as makeshift nurse and packing away the supplies. “It’s funny. I should be asking you that, not the other way around. How does nobody know about this?”

“You can’t tell, okay?”

“Why not? We need to call the cops, and CPS, and-”

“No!” 

Beat. 

“I’m sorry. Just… keep it on the down-low, please?”

Whizzer sighed. He hated that he was doing this. “Okay. But, if you ever need help or anything, we’re always here,” he smiled sympathetically, and they embraced. 

The spare mattress lay abandoned as Marvin buried his head into Whizzer’s chest, enjoying the feeling of his hair being delicately played with. He was safe here, in Whizzer’s arms, on his bed, in his house. He was unsure of a number of things, but he could tell you that for sure and certain. 

_ fin.  _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	18. sims at the club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mendel, whizzer, trina, charlotte, and dee play the sims.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!! i'm so sorry for the wait, i haven't been feeling the best in terms of my mental health, what with school and grades (they came out today!) and my own personal issues, so i don't have much motivation to get pretty much anything done as of right now. nevertheless, i wanted to post something for y'all, even if it isn't my best work. i don't feel the best about this fic, but i hope you enjoy it regardless. this week is my final week of online school before summer vacation, so i'm sure things will improve by then and i'll have more motivation and energy to write a little better, especially since we're just about to get into the meat of this au. please keep doing whatever you can for the blm movement, and have yourselves a wonderful day/night <333

Trina slipped her overflowing purple binder into her backpack, training her ears in an attempt to decipher Mrs Chapman’s accented screeches about test prep and pivotal points and quotes buried deep, like treasure on a secluded island, in the rich and demanding language of Alcott’s classical literature that were crucial to high exam performance, as her shrill voice mingled with the piercing peal of the lunch bell. As the weeks went by and the daunting AP English exam began to loom tauntingly over each petrified student, there had been a significant influx of worksheets and prep books and perplexing analysis assignments being dished out, and Trina found her shoulders aching more often than not as she walked the halls with her bag strapped to her back. Nevertheless, the wide assortment of diligently-completed activity sheets and the amount of essays (that were the product of drinking buckets of tea while she typed away as the sun rose into the clear Rochester sky, with summary sheets and previous work spread out on the bed like an ocean of words) she had saved on her laptop soothed her greatly; if she kept up her hard work in lessons and studied at home like she did, she’d be able to retain all the information required with ease by the time the exam rolled around. Even if the going did get tough, at least she had Cordelia and Charlotte at her side. When it came to English class, the three were practically inseparable, always assisting each other with difficult coursework pieces, and pairing up for group projects, even when the instructions clearly stated that there were to be two people per group. But, since they were Mrs Chapman’s subtle favourites, she seemed to turn a purposeful blind eye. They always seemed to turn in work of the highest quality, so the woman couldn’t exactly complain. 

The trio left the classroom together, voicing their anxieties about the exam in hushed voices en route to the cafeteria, where Mendel and Whizzer awaited their arrival at their usual table by the wooden double doors, sweaty and famished from a grueling PE class. But something was off. Something that sent chills down the spines of every member of the group. Marvin’s seat, Trina found, was left unoccupied. It was Thursday, and the boy hadn’t attended school since the beginning of the week. Even when he had, he appeared distant and spacey, flinching when anyone raised their voice above a mere whisper, and disappearing altogether when the bell rang, signifying third period’s conclusion and the start of the long-awaited lunch period. His friends missed him dearly, and it felt, to the remaining five, as though a hole had been burned in their group’s special, unique dynamic that they were certain no other cluster of people possessed. All of them knew something nasty, something dark, something twisted was happening, and Whizzer had to resist the urge to vomit all the information he knew onto his friends, like any sane person would. He’d promised not to tell, and he’d been taught to keep his promises. But he didn’t know how much longer he could stay quiet. His friend wouldn’t answer his texts or calls, and the only interactions they had were when he crudely refused the dinner invitations Anne-Marie insisted he ask about. If he said he didn’t lie awake in his bed while his parents slept, his mind racing as he pondered all the gruesome things that could be happening just next door while he sat idly by, he’d be lying. He sat slumped at their lunch table as he picked at his food, his appetite adequately stifled for the first time in, quite possibly, his entire seventeen years of existence. 

“Hey, are you good?” a soft voice beside him asked. Cordelia slipped into the chair beside him, clutching a blue lunch tray with a watery mess that vaguely resembled lasagna. She rubbed his shoulder, chuckling when he pulled a face at the carnage on her tray. 

“I’m okay,” he lied, unable to tear his eyes away from the sorry excuse for lasagna. “What the fuck are you eating?”

Cordelia shrugged, her expression one of both bewilderment and amusement. “It was either this or the tacos. And I’m getting my Spanish test back next period, I don’t want to spend the entire class in the bathroom,” she grinned, shifting her chair forward and picking up the flimsy plastic fork. It was then that Whizzer noticed the additional slice of apple pie on her tray. His suggestive stares didn’t go unnoticed by his blonde childhood friend, who raised her eyebrows. “You’ve been upset since Tuesday, so I got you one to cheer you up. I know you like ‘em, and I figured your appetite could use a little spoiling,”

Whizzer grinned, his low spirits momentarily lifted. He finished the BLT in his packed lunch and began working on the slice of pie his friend had purchased. “You’re a godsend, thank you,”

“Mendel, what did I tell you about doing your homework the period before it’s due?” Charlotte mock-chided exasperatedly, her hand resting on her chin as she watched her friend glare at his computer. Her friend’s detrimental habits regarding finishing his work on time had landed him in hot water on more occasions than he’d like to admit, and the Southerner wanted to ensure he wasn’t expelled from high school just before graduation. For the most part, her casual reminders sufficed, and Mendel’s average skyrocketed from a C minus to a B plus. 

“I’m not doing homework,” the boy in question muttered, urgency evident in his voice. “I’m trying to make these goddamn Sims stop having sex and go the  _ fuck  _ to work,”

Sipping at her apple juice, Trina chuckled at the nonplussed and ever-so-slightly concerned expressions on her friends’ faces. “His mom finally let him get The Sims. He wouldn’t shut up about it on the phone last night,”

Cordelia brightened, wolfing down the remnants of her dripping, sad lasagna that Whizzer was unable to refrain from grimacing at like it had committed an erroneous crime against the human race. “Shit, Phillip and I used to play that game all the time. Can I join you?”

“I wanna see if I can make a Sim as attractive as myself, so count me in,” Whizzer said. 

They took turns taking control of the laptop, where Mendel had set up the game facility on which one was able to fashion new characters, as well as pick characteristics and mannerisms from a myriad of eclectic and intriguing choices. Cordelia had undoubtedly been the boldest in terms of trait selection, fascinated by the descriptions written of the more abnormal ones. Regarding the physical character creation process, Whizzer by far spent the lengthiest amount of time fussing over the most insignificant (to the others, at least) details and intricacies, such as the slight upturn of his nose, or the exact shape of his eyes. Nonetheless, by the middle of their lunch break, six characters (including Marvin, because each felt a horrible culpability in their throats to be enjoying the day in his sinister absence) representing each member of the group had been designed, and were ready to be thrust forcibly into the spellbinding virtual universe of unfathomable possibilities. 

They ended up at the town’s local club, where melodic gibberish blasted over the sound system as various characters showed off their egregious dance skills. Whizzer directed his character over to the elongated bar that was tucked away in the corner of the club. 

“What are you doing?” Trina asked, voice muffled by the strawberry in her mouth as she eyed the screen confusedly.

“I’m trying to see if I can pick up this guy,” 

“Living vicariously through The Sims, I see,” Cordelia jested, bumping her shoulder against her friend’s. 

“Okay, ouch? That was fucking unnecessary,”

But Whizzer felt something at the back of his mind, behind all the convincing false smiles and overconfident assurances that yes, he was perfectly alright, why wouldn’t he be? A persistent, pleading voice badgered him, begged him to tell his friends the truth. Time was running out. It didn’t take much to deduce that the issues regarding their absent friend were escalating at an alarmingly frivolous pace, and nobody wanted to even think about just how far matters could get before it all came crashing down like a precarious tower of building blocks. He couldn’t keep playing for time. In this situation, he held the most power. He, Andrew Mason Price-Brown, could change the course of the tragic events he’d been informed of for the better if he could just  _ stop being a coward. _

They had to take action. And fast. 

  
  
  


_ fin.  _


	19. the dodgeball game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a PE lesson takes a sinister turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> h o O B O Y SHIT'S ABOUT TO GO DOWN  
> anyway uhhh welcome to part nineteen! you remember how i kept saying we were almost at the Big Angst? well, we've reached our destination. that's right folks, we finally got to the actual fucking plot of this entire AU. about time, honestly, i stalled for too long. but! i've got lots of stuff planned now that stuff is actually happening lmao. i remember trying to come up with a way to introduce this section of the story, and this idea came to mind during a conversation with the lovely @whizzvin_writes! lucas if you're reading this, thank you for inspiring me, ily!! 
> 
> i hope you enjoy the fic, i had a grand old time writing it! comments and kudos are greatly appreciated, they mean so so much to me <333
> 
> tw : fainting, mentions of hospitals very briefly at the end

The putrid, repugnant stench of sweaty socks and pungent men’s cologne filled the contaminated air of the PE changing room as boys pushed and shoved in pursuit of tattered trainers, half-empty deodorant cans, and an abundance of other items they’d undoubtedly mislaid amongst the raucous hordes of twelfth grade boys. Whizzer felt that the most accurate, succinct method of description for the weirdly-spacious locker rooms, with their grotesque red-and-white colour scheme and uncomfortable wooden benches inconveniently situated in areas that deemed one highly-susceptible to painfully stubbing a toe or colliding a leg with one of the numerous and frankly unnecessary sharp corners, was a jungle. A jungle with dense, lush trees and a path that, if strayed away from, would never be located again. If a friend were to disappear amidst the clamouring clusters of seniors, chances were that any hopes of finding them would be promptly tarnished. That was why Whizzer ensured to remain close to Marvin, and the pair put the sub-par ASL skills they’d picked up for fun to the test whenever they needed to communicate from across the dressing room. Mendel, too was in on the act - it was more essential for him because he got dressed in the small toilet cubicles tucked away in a far corner of the changing room, so he could have a shred of privacy. More often than not, getting dressed proved to be more eventful than the PE lesson itself, and Whizzer, Marvin, and Mendel were all extremely glad to leave the room after hurriedly tugging on their gym kit, consisting of a green shirt, and whatever shorts or sweatpants they chose to bring in. 

Upon entering the gym, the boys found their female friends huddled together on a bench, conversing in hushed voices as they awaited the lesson’s commencement. Cordelia was in shorts, her girlfriend in sweats, and Trina in a navy tennis skirt that made a certain curly-haired New Yorker’s breath hitch. To Mendel and most others, her surprising amount of endurance and overall skill in the subject was admirable. She proved talented in swimming, even more so at tennis and badminton, and particularly excelled in their track unit in both long and short distance. Although admittedly, it did make him feel rather insecure about his own inferior athletic skills. Her and Whizzer tied first for the pacer test at the start of the year, after all. And considering Whizzer was famously unsurpassed in nearly every aspect of the godforsaken class, the girl’s achievement spoke volumes about her ability. 

“Hey!” the blonde greeted cheerfully as the boys came to join them on the cramped bench. Her bright beam faded slightly on sight of Marvin, who appeared dazed and fatigued, his eyes threatening to slide shut as sleep attempted to capture him in its tenebrous, cold clutches, despite the tumultuous din of other seniors chattering amongst themselves. “Welcome back, Marvin,” she said, trying to hide the concern that laced her voice. “Are you good? You weren’t in for, like, all of last week,” she asked, against her better judgement. Of course he wasn’t okay. Why else would he only show up at her mother’s carpool one day out of five?

“Yeah,” he muttered, snapping out of his reverie of apprehension and lethargy. “Yeah. M’ fine,”

No excuse. No mundane, regular reason as to why he hadn’t showed, because he didn’t  _ have one.  _ Something awful had taken place the previous week, something that couldn’t be made up for with an alibi as elementary as a head cold or a family event. Cordelia melted into Charlotte’s side, suddenly breathless and scared as she watched her girlfriend become oddly determined to pull off the hangnail at her thumb. Trina bit her lip, exchanging discreet glances with Mendel as she fiddled with her neat copper ponytail. 

“What do you think we’re doing today?” she said, changing the subject. 

“Some guys in the dressing room were talking about dodgeball?” Whizzer said, his voice wobbling as he spoke. 

Mendel groaned outwardly, tugging at his ebony curls in annoyance. “I fuckin’ hate that game. It’s just an excuse for the baseball team to let out their pent-up rage against me. The only reason they don’t actually bully me is because of my intimidating presence,”

At this, Marvin barked out a good-natured laugh. “The only reason they leave you alone is because Whizzer makes them,”

“You screamed and stood on your desk when a fly landed on your chair in Home Ec,” Charlotte raised her eyebrows, allowing her chin to rest in her hands. “You have no intimidating presence to speak of,”

“And then you wouldn’t get down until Mr Simmons killed it with his shoe,” Whizzer continued. “Need we go on?”

But before the others could bully the boy further, the coach blew his whistle and the lesson began. Whizzer’s prediction proved correct, and he and Charlotte were appointed team captains for the two opposing sides. On the former’s team were Trina and Mendel, while the latter took Marvin and Cordelia. Assuming their starting positions on either side of the gymnasium, the whistle sounded for the second time that day, and the massacre of limbs, volleyballs, strange victory strategies, and confused yelling began. The three friends of the formidable Team One, or Whizzer’s team, congregated by the sidelines to formulate a game plan. 

“Are we calling truce this time?” Trina asked, bouncing from foot to foot in anticipation. 

“Well, Char did tell me we were, quote unquote, ‘going down’, so I doubt it,” Mendel scratched his head, glancing fearfully at the game, where the mentioned Southerner and her girlfriend were taking out a surprising amount of people on the other team. They’d have to be careful if they were to avoid getting hit. 

Whizzer clapped his hands. “Alright. Game faces on, bitches, we’re going to kick some ass,” 

They charged into battle, spacing out like they’d planned in their three-person huddle. Mendel had been instructed to loiter near the wall, which was the safe zone. Being a relatively small guy, he was rather nimble, and so could easily dart away from harm’s way if need be. Whizzer was in the middle, deflecting hit after hit, and in the thick of it all was Trina, hurling volleyballs at the opposition and very rarely missing. Deftly, she caught one that barrelled in her direction at lightning speed, and readied her arm to toss it back, fully intending to eliminate the ginger-haired, freckled girl she could see standing in front of Marvin. 

It was at that point that things took a severe turn for the worse. 

The tall redhead ducked lithely from Trina’s blow, and the ball hit Marvin squarely in the stomach. Taken aback by the sudden force, he stumbled, clawing at the wall behind him for support. The students around him blurred into one another, no longer individual people, but a vast sea of heads and pine-green shirts. His vision darkened, dark clouds slowly dominating his mind as he tried to stand, desperate hands frantically groping for something, anything to stabilise him. His empty stomach churned, and he wanted to throw up right then, even though there was physically nothing to regurgitate - he’d discarded his lunch at the first period bell, when he and Whizzer had classes on opposite ends of the building, and it wasn’t as though he ate at home. The clouds didn’t part, and the last thing Marvin remembered before he descended into darkness was another volleyball colliding with the side of his head. 

Charlotte was the first to notice. Rushing over to where her friend was out cold, she instructed a panicked Cordelia to inform the teacher of what had happened. 

“I think Char’s calling us over. Something happened to Marvin,” Trina said to Whizzer, her voice low with urgency. “Get Mendel, and meet me over there. This can’t be good,” 

The lesson was dismissed twenty minutes early. Every senior, save for the five people Marvin called friends, filed out of the gymnasium in a disorderly fashion, muttering amongst themselves about the strange occurrence that had taken place in their lesson. Charlotte knelt at the unresponsive boy’s side, checking for a pulse and listening for any signs of breathing. “He’s breathing,” she said with relief, before returning to doctor mode. “We need to get him to the nurse’s office. Now,”

“I’ll go,” Whizzer said, eyes glassy with tears. It was all his fault. He knew from the start. Had he gone with his gut, trusted his instincts, possessed even a  _ shred of common sense _ , his best friend (that he may or may not have had subtle feelings for) wouldn’t be lying unconscious in a sweaty PE kit, that could arguably have fit the baseball player at the age of eleven, on the gymnasium floor. “Dee, you wanna come too?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure,” she mumbled, still not fully grasping the situation. Her legs felt like lead as she did her best to keep up with her childhood friend, who sprinted at full speed across the halls in search of the school clinic. 

The group didn’t speak on the carpool ride back to Campbell Street. They didn’t meet up to go swimming at the Thompsons’ on Saturday like they’d planned a few weeks prior. The ones who followed Judaism didn’t utter a word to one another during the synagogue service. Nobody conversed on the groupchat. Nobody visited one another. Whizzer, Mendel, Trina, Charlotte, and Cordelia were radio silent. 

That was, until they received word that Marvin Feldman had been admitted to hospital. 

  
  


_ fin.  _


	20. like a prayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whizzer, mendel, trina, charlotte go to synagogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's POPPING MY FRIENDS 😎  
> okay ew sorry i'll never say that again. but here we are!! chapter twenty!! this took me twice as long as it should have lmao, as do most of the things i write because apparently i can't stay focused on one thing?? anyway smh, this chapter was fun to do, if a little sad. i'm so excited for the future of this fic and where my plans will take me, and i hope y'all enjoy reading them as much as i do writing them out! holy shit i'm gonna be so sad when this finishes fiwdjkhdjdhd
> 
> alas i digress. please keep spreading the word and advocating for the black lives matter movement!! sign petitions, donate whatever you can, and just raise awareness to help defund this corrupt system and bring justice to the people and lives affected by it. no justice no peace. 
> 
> i hope you enjoy the fic! comments and kudos are always immensely appreciated, you don't even know how happy i get reading all of em <33 
> 
> tw : mentioned eating disorders, mentioned racism, mentions of hospitals

If she was being honest, Charlotte didn’t know how long she’d been staring mindlessly up at the countless glow stars tacked onto the otherwise-plain, cracking ceiling. Fondly, she remembered the day that the sunny, vivacious girl with the bouncy blonde curls she’d harboured feelings for since the very minute she’d sprinted haphazardly across the street in that yellow spotted swimsuit and floppy straw hat that were forever imprinted in Charlotte’s smitten mind, so astonished and head-over-heels in love that any and all logic was cast away and forgotten, had stood with her on her creaking single bed and assisted in sticking them to the ceiling, giggling and talking and capturing cheesy, yet endearing photos on the blonde’s Polaroid camera along the way. That day had quite plausibly been one of the happiest and most joyous of her entire eighteen years on their dying planet, and from then onwards, the Southerner disregarded any internal conflicts or qualms she’d experienced in the past pertaining to her intimidating move up north. Because, if she really thought about it, what was there to lose in Alabama? The strange and incriminating looks she’d get from the white boys at her school? The women that clutched their purses in horror whenever the DuBoises so much as waved at them? The nights Charlotte would tiptoe down the stairs for a glass of water and overhear her parents quietly whimpering in the living room, undoubtedly due to a derogatory comment they’d had to bottle up their anger and turmoil towards for the entire day? No, the girl could safely say that she was glad to bid farewell to the place, and she highly doubted the probability of her ever returning. 

Yet what she hadn’t expected out of her relocation, as she sat in her plane seat by the window and stared at all the buildings and trees and streetlights of her new home, was to be thrust into a whirlwind of theories and concerned texts and eating disorders. As it turned out, suspicious occurrences had been taking place at the Feldman residence for years, but nobody had ever picked up on it, and if they did, the alarm was never raised. At least, not until now. Word had spread like wildfire across both Campbell Street and Highland Ridge, and soon, Marvin Feldman and the suppositions surrounding him had become the talk of the school. It made her sick, honestly; she appreciated that the other kids sympathised and were willing to create change, but after seeing his poor, distraught and confused little brother being harassed in the halls for information that he wasn’t at all ready to give, something told Charlotte that a handful of the kids didn’t have the best of intentions, and were exploiting the boy’s illness for popularity. Now, after-school hours and weekends for the girl had been devoted to research, and figuring out how exactly to be a friend in a situation such as this one. Campbell Street had grown eerily subdued since word had spread of her friend’s admittance to the hospital, and Charlotte understood. Nothing had been the same after it happened, and she had an inkling that they would remain that way until justice was served. 

A week had passed since they’d found out. Neither Charlotte, nor her parents or friends had felt up to attending synagogue the previous Saturday, and the Thompsons skipped church, too. But today felt somewhat different. She was numb, yes, and unbelievably so, but she’d just about managed to slither out of her bed’s inviting clutches of comfort and replace her wrinkled, sorry excuse for pajamas with something more presentable. She’d stumbled down the wooden staircase and prepared herself a measly bowl of bland cereal without acknowledging the heavy weight on her shoulders too much. It never seemed to go away, that weight. Not since Marvin had left and the usually-lively street was as silent as a graveyard. Sometimes she’d break and cry in her room when her parents weren’t home. There was the one day she’d spent the entire Home Ec lesson with tears streaming down her face, biting down hard on her hand to avoid anyone hearing her sobs. And nobody had. Not even her friends. Which was good - God knew they were grappling with their own grief and hurt. 

Speaking of her friends, they’d planned to accompany Estelle, Mendel, the younger of his two brothers (the older of whom being off at Yale), and his twin sister that he’d mentioned on the offhand occasion, to synagogue that day. To Charlotte’s amusement and excitement, they would be travelling in Mrs Weisenbachfeld’s notorious white minivan, lovingly dubbed the “Estellemobile” by her children. As expected, the van was rather quiet. Trina sat by Mendel and his sister Hannah, who wore a button-down underneath a thin grey jumper, headphones hidden beneath bleached blonde hair. She toyed with the pleats on her nice skirt, her mind frantically searching for a way to open up a conversation. Since catching wind of Marvin’s situation, the girl had hardly spoken a word. When she had, it always appeared so forced and awkward, and so Trina had elected to keep her lips sealed for the most part. Mendel, too, appeared downcast, and Whizzer in the back, beside Mendel’s brother Aaron, had left his paper-bag breakfast untouched. 

“Not hungry this morning, Whizzer?” Estelle half-shouted from the van’s driver’s seat. 

“Not really,” was the boy’s sullen reply, shrugging as he fiddled with the tie his mother had forced him into wearing, his eyes briefly lingering on the discarded brown bag. 

It was then that Trina turned around, noticing the brightly-coloured kippah atop her friend’s meticulously-gelled chestnut waves. “Whizzer, you probably own like, thirty kippahs, but you just  _ had  _ to wear the hot pink one?”

Whizzer scowled, folding his arms across his stylish blazer and shirt. “My mom never lets me wear it, so I figured I’d take the opportunity when it came to me,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing. 

“Gee, I wonder why you aren’t allowed to wear a godforsaken hot pink kippah to a literal place of worship,” Mendel raised his eyebrows, adjusting his own navy-coloured one. On this rare occasion, his clothes were staid and nondescript, a stark contrast to his usual bright and busy sense of dress. “God’s eyes are probably hurting like hell right now. Also, I’m telling your mom,”

“Hey, Estelle? Your son is bullying me,”

“Mendel Joseph, I’m going to politely ask you to shut up. Don’t worry, Whizzer, darling, your secret’s safe with me,”

And, just for the moment, spirits were high and all was well in the Estellemobile. 

The lobby at the local synagogue was loud and bustling, just as it was every week, with worshippers politely greeting one another and grinning ushers doling out prayer books. To Whizzer, it felt somewhat wrong or improper to be entering such a lively place in his current solemn, grief-stricken state. His mother had profusely told him that it was perfectly understandable if he felt as though he needed to opt out of attending service for a bit, but he wasn’t about to let the others down and not show. Swallowing thickly and offering the usher boy, who looked both perturbed and pitiful towards him, a halfhearted smile, Whizzer accepted the book and followed the others into the sanctuary. They shuffled into their usual pew towards the back. During a regular Saturday service, this was where the Browns, Weisenbachfelds, Duboises, plus Trina, her sister and her brother (her parents, as well as the Feldman clan, sat in the very first pew) would do their very best to remained focused on the prayers and songs, but a rogue shoe would soar through the air halfway through, followed by a hushed utterance of a colourful variety of profanity from its owner. All would go to shit in the last few pews as everyone dissolved into giggles, and they could just about catch Marvin’s playful, longing smile over a sea of people. 

Today, however, was not a regular synagogue service. The Feldmans passed them en route to their seats in the front, and Emmett shot them a meek smile as he slunk behind his parents. Mendel’s heart lurched - the poor kid looked like he hadn’t slept in aeons, and understandably so. His brother was in hospital, for Pete’s sake. The service itself seemed, at least in his opinion, marginally more miserable. The rabbi’s zealous and wise voice had regressed into disinterest and boredom. The cantor, always cheerful and delighted to be leading the community in holy song, sounded almost depressed. Fitting, really, considering the predicament surrounding the residents of Campbell Street. All they could do was hope, Mendel supposed as he flipped over to the next page in the book. Hope and pray. Pray that, if there was a God out there, He’d guide them to the light at the end of the dark, endless tunnel of swarming darkness and perplexing winding paths they’d seemed to wind up in. 

He felt a tentative arm link with his. Trina smiled at him, blue eyes earnest underneath the brown curtain that was the fringe she so despised. His trembling hand following hers, they found their fingers laced carefully together by their sides, and neither felt the urge to let go. Reassuringly, she squeezed his hand, and they returned to prayer, the same thought at the forefront of their minds. 

_ Please let our friend be okay.  _

  
  


_ fin.  _


	21. with love, emmett

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> marvin's little brother has something to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy fucking shit this one is a ride  
> uhh hey! i tried to write this twice, both yesterday and two days ago, but i gave up because i wasn't in the right headspace 😔✌️. however, i did manage to get it done, and lost all sense of time in the process lmao. this one's a bit long, but i made it a little different on purpose so it's fine. it's probably the most angsty chapter i've written thusfar, so please read the trigger warnings listed at the end of this note, and don't read/be careful if anything could potentially harm you mentally. if i got anything wrong, or am glorifying/romanticising this serious, heavy, very real thing, please please tell me, and i'll fix it to the best of my ability, because inaccurately portraying something that a lot of people have been victims of is the last thing i want to do. thanks <333
> 
> aLsOOoo uhh i go by sammie now? it's just a nickname, and i'm only trying it out for now, but i've always hated my name so i figured going by a nickname i actually liked would be appropriate. but i'm not changing my username, and i'll update on how my experience with it is (i may end up hating it/feeling uncomfortable using it and go by sarah again). i'll admit, i'm lowkey nervous about all this - fuck, i'm even scared writing this note right now - but i suppose it's all part of figuring out who i am :)
> 
> please keep doing what you can for black lives matter!! stay safe at protests, sign some petitions, donate if you can. breonna taylor's murderers still walk free today, and george floyd's are bailing out via donations. we have to keep fighting until we see change. i'm not black, but i see you and i stand with you. 
> 
> tw : mentions of child abuse, eating disorders, mentions of cheating, alcohol abuse  
> (let me know if there's anything i missed, stay safe <3)

A year ago, should one have told Emmett Isaac Feldman that he’d be sitting anxiously on his bed, foot tapping with a quiet, perturbed anticipation against the creaking, aged hardwood at an hour criminally late (or early, if you perceived it as such) to be awake and functioning as he apprehensively awaited the green light to sneak out of the house that’d become dangerous and sinister and unpredictable in the worst manner possible, he’d have stared into the dark and swirling abyss for several seconds, before forcing out a timorous chuckle and mumbling some excuse to remove himself from the conversation. And yet, here he was, staring as the shorter hand on the clock inched ever nearer to the number one. He realised that there was a substantial amount to mull over and contemplate as waited with internal alarm for his girlfriend Elle’s approval to slip out the smokey-grey front door as silently and discreetly as he could. They’d ruled out the window fairly quickly; jumping from a height such as that one would almost certainly result in death, and Emmett was sure that not even all the alcohol in the world could cure his father from bereavement. Subsequent to his brother’s admittance to hospital, the sophomore found that a sinister silence had settled like dust over the Feldman residence, much like the rest of the road he lived on. Both Karen and his father Abe seemed reluctant to open up to their confused and more-than-slightly angry younger son about the elephant in the room. His mother was rarely home, pulling some bullshit out of her ass about a business trip back to Boston, and his father hardly ever said a word to him. He’d never hurt Marvin, never starved him, never belittled him, but he’d never put a stop to his wife’s cruelty. And, in Emmett’s opinion, standing idly by while the harm inflicted upon his son and his fragile body grew closer and closer to being irreversible, deemed him equally as guilty of abuse as their mother. 

But, as he sat cross-legged atop his wooden twin bed (that was in decidedly superior condition to his half-starved older brother’s), dressed in a soft, burgundy cashmere jumper that his mother had purchased in a futile effort to placate him, to butter him up, to soften him into speaking to her again, he wasn’t sure why it came as a shock to him. Why he’d been so oblivious and ignorant and _stupid._ For years, the signs had been right in front of him. Shoved forcibly under his nose by whatever deities or superior beings were out there, even, and he’d still chosen to ignore it. That was it. He’d made it a point to remain blissfully unaware of the signs because he was scared. _He_ was scared. Of what people would say and do and what could happen to the big brother he looked to as though he’d hung the stars and moon. Marvin Alexander Feldman had always been a chubby child - fuck, he’d been a pound heavier than average when he was born. Emmett had never felt animosity towards him for it, nor seen an issue with having a bit of extra meat on one’s bones, so long as he was healthy, which he certainly seemed. So why, then, was Marvin presented with a measly bowl of muesli on Saturday mornings, when he was given a liberal helping of pancakes and orange juice? He’d asked about it once, when he was eleven and his brother was thirteen, only just dipping his toes in the vast waters of teenagedom. His mother said that the doctor had recommended a diet at his last checkup, just to ensure his health couldn’t plausibly be put in jeopardy, in that sickly-sweet, condescending voice that made Emmett feel like he’d been born yesterday, and told him to run along and play up in his - no, _their_ room. And young, naive, _stupid_ little Emmett had brushed it off like it were nothing, and didn’t revisit the topic until only recently, when people began to talk and his mother’s methods grew increasingly more dubious. Maybe, if he’d said something earlier, his mother would be gone and his father’s slight drinking problem wouldn’t have manifested and developed and festered. Maybe, if he’d said something earlier, _his brother wouldn’t be in hospital._

His phone vibrated, and Emmett almost jumped out of his own skin. Hands trembling slightly, he checked the notification, despite already knowing what it read. 

**pinksledgehammers:** coast is clear, it’s go time

“Em… where- where y’off to?” a slurred, husky voice rasped from the living room, and Emmett stopped in his tracks. He was relatively light on his feet, but he conceded that wearing clunky combat boots didn’t exactly aid him in his endeavours of stealth. If he remained in his current position, and didn’t move a muscle regardless of how persistent the urge to scratch his nose was, perhaps his father would return to his fitful slumber on the sofa? Right? Wrong.

“C’mere. Tell me what’s happenin’. I won’t hurt you, y’know tha’,” 

And so, Emmett was left with no choice but to venture into the living room that reeked of whiskey and shame and dark secrets, shooting Elle, sitting patiently in her father’s contemporary convertible, a quick reply in return. 

**redbullenthusiast:** i’ll be out in a couple minutes, my dad saw me. turns out doc martens don’t exactly muffle your footsteps

Abe Feldman was a heavy-set, lumbering man with coarse auburn frizz atop his head and sallow, sunken baby-blue eyes, that’d been locked in a loveless marriage for twenty years. It’d been alright at first - he was a young, meek Liberal Arts major at Boston College. She was the brazen, spontaneous girl from across the co-ed hall that was studying social work, or so he’d heard. It’d all gone downhill, really, after she’d hesitantly announced her second pregnancy, and that the child did not belong to him. God knew he should’ve left right then and there. Taken their cheery, idyllic two-year-old son and shipped both of them off back to his hometown in Vermont, or something. But he hadn’t. Albeit begrudgingly, he stuck around. Adopted the child - Emmett Forrest, he was originally called - and raised him as though nothing even happened. She’d claimed to have cut ties with the guy after he was born, but something told Abe that the hours spent awake on her phone as he tried to get to sleep weren’t dedicated to innocent websurfing. Something in the way she treated Emmett told him that she still loved him. Every day, as the kids grew and both parents and siblings grew increasingly more distant, the wine closet seemed more enticing. 

“Where y’headed?” he asked his son, who appeared alienated as he sat slowly in the cushy armchair. Abe attempted to realign himself into a sitting position, but received only a sharp pain in his head for his troubles. 

“Rehab center. To see Marvin,”

“‘S one in the morning,”

“Elle knows the receptionist,”

Abe scrunched up his face, partly in disapproval, partly due to the overwhelming pounding in his head. “Y’know how your mother feels about you goin’ in for visits,”

“But she’s not here, is she? And I couldn’t give two shits about how she feels, and neither should you,” Emmett muttered into the darkness. “I know, Dad. I know I’m not… not yours,”

“Listen here, kiddo,” his father slurred at length, a shred of uncertainty in his voice. He couldn’t for the life of him think how he’d found out. Yet alas, it was one in the goddamn morning, and his youngest son was sneaking out to see his brother at a rehabilitation facility. Now wasn’t the time to be having this conversation. “I may… I may have not been dad of the year, a’ight? And your mother may not have had ya with me. But you’re just as much my kid as your brother, okay? An’ I know it may not look it, but I love ya both all the same. You’ve always been my little boy, Em. Always…”

Emmett bristled, composing himself and using every ounce of willpower he possessed to not break down in the living room. His girlfriend was outside, for Pete’s sake. “I’m not going to school tomorrow. We’re going to talk about this. You’ve abused Marvin just as much as Mom did, because you sat there and didn’t do anything,” he choked out, and was gone. 

Elle waited in the driver’s seat, a concerned expression creasing her perfect features. Noticing her boyfriend’s stress and hunched shoulders, she placed a comforting hand over his, dragging her thumb across his white knuckles. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I’m great,”

“Do you have the letter?”

“Check,”

“And the drawing?”

“Check,”

  
***  
  


_Dear Marvin,_

_It’s Emmett, but I guess you already knew that. I mean, we don’t have any other siblings. Anyway, I’d better tell you why I’m reaching out to you in the first place, especially when you most likely don’t want to see me ever again. It’s understandable, really - I’ve been an asshole. The signs were right in front of me since we were 11 and 13, and yet I chose to ignore them because I was scared. I didn’t want to think about what she was doing to you because it scared the living shit out of me, but I can’t imagine how terrified you must’ve been, and still are. So, I just sort of… blocked it out, I guess? But that was selfish of me, and I shouldn’t have done it. Maybe if I’d been less of a shitty excuse for a brother, you wouldn’t be in a literal fucking psych ward right now. This is supposed to be an apology letter - it’s easier for me to articulate what I want to say on paper, rather than a face-to-face conversation. So here I am. Apologising. Marvin Alexander Feldman of the great (that’s a lie, it’s fucking disgusting) city of Roxbury, Massachusetts, the greatest brother I could’ve ever asked for, I’m sorry. Very much so. For being ignorant and self-absorbed and silly. I know it’ll take time for you to forgive me (that’s if you will), and I respect that, but just know that I’m aware that what I’ve done was betraying and wrong, and I’ll never stop apologising for it._

_Mom’s never home now that you’re gone. I’m pretty sure your friends know about her and everything that’s been happening, and there have been rumours that they’re going to take action for it. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but a part of me hopes it is. You deserve so much more than this. Than a shitty mom, an alcoholic dad, and the worst excuse for a brother to ever exist. I’m not gonna lie, I’m nervous. Something’s brewing back on Campbell Street, Marv, I can feel it. I get the feeling that things aren’t going to be the same for long. I don’t have much else to say, mostly because I’m sort of still processing it all. It’s sort of embarrassing that I couldn’t take all the hints before. Sometimes I walk around the house and see everything. It’s all there, right in front of me. The chart on the wall in the downstairs bathroom, the scale, the weird healthy food in the pantry, the clothes in your closet that were small on you in middle school. There’s nothing left for me to say but I’m sorry. All three of us are to blame for what you went through, not just Mom._

_Enclosed is a drawing of you in your Fiddler outfit. Elle works costumes, she told me what it looked like. I don’t know if you’ll be out of here in time to perform it, but even if you aren’t, me and Elle will be there to cheer you on - her from the wings, me from the audience._

_I’d say to enjoy rehab, but I’m not sure if you’re meant to, so I won’t. Get well soon, I hope everything works out okay in the end._

_With love,_

_Emmett_

The younger of the boys blew out a shaky sigh, tears sliding down his cheeks and onto the sheaf of papers he held in his shaking hands. Setting them on the little nightstand in Marvin’s bleak room, Emmett approached the bed, raking his unkempt, floppy curls from his eyes. Marvin was soundly asleep on his side, the stark-white comforter pulled up to his chin. He felt his insides twist into a million uncomfortable knots. Not bothering to scrub at the rainstorm of tears dripping down his distraught face, he clasped his hands together and tilted his head towards the ceiling. If there indeed was a God out there, he hoped He was watching. 

“Please. Please, just let him be okay,” he muttered into the silence.

  
  


_fin._


	22. hell week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tech week for fiddler begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gooooood mornin! i’m coming to you from the darkness of my bedroom at one in the morning djsjkskaksj. apologies for the delay, i really just wasn’t feeling up to writing these past few days, and my brain wasn’t cooperating in the slightest. maybe my best ideas come when i’m half asleep and meant to be in bed? who knows lmao. sadly, the end is nigh for this fic, which is so crazy to think about. looking back to when i started this in april while i tried to write the housemates au simultaneously (remember her? yeah, that didn’t go very well) i didn’t think i’d get this far, and sometimes i still wonder if i’ll have enough steam to make it to the end. but, we’re keeping our fingers crossed, because we’ve still got a couple chapters left to go! i’m so excited to write this section of the story, and i’ve been planning something for after this is over that i’m insanely excited about (seriously i’ve bothered so many people about it that’s how fuckin stoked i am it’s an issue sorry btw). 
> 
> alas i digress, but i hope you enjoy the fic! if the ending seems shitty, i’m sorry, i was half asleep when i got to the end 😔✌️
> 
> till next time! 
> 
> sammie <3
> 
> tw : mentions of rehab

Chin cupped in his occupied hand, Mendel gazed blankly out the condensated window of his sister Hannah’s battered, declining ivory car, doodling absently onto the misty glass with his finger as trees and mailboxes and houses blurred past them in hazy, nebulous clusters of distorted colour. Lying limp at his feet was a tattered red duffel bag, stuffed to the brim with a myriad of assorted odds and ends deemed necessary by the boy in order to just barely survive the first of seven gruelling, arduous days devoted solely to ceaseless repetition of dance numbers and song passages, cramming in forgotten lines whilst anxiously awaiting a cue in the swirling, caliginous darkness of the wings, finalising costumes for the impending dress rehearsal, and figuring out how to include light and sound - a broad and complex aspect of the fascinating world of live theatre in itself - into the bubbling, frothing melting pot that was Highland Ridge’s production of the universally-renowned tale of an impoverished Jewish milkman and his five daughters, Fiddler on the Roof. Technically speaking, he should be confidently off-book by now, considering that just short of three weeks remained until the musical was open to the general Rochester public for all to come and attend. And he was, for the most part, only breaking the expressive, flawless recitation of his lines during a scene or so. It was understandable, really, perhaps even inevitable; almost everything regarding the show and the preparations leading up to it were placed temporarily on the back burner as the participants attempted to grasp the overwhelming situation they’d been thrust headfirst into like divers off a board. Thankfully, the director, a young and bright-eyed woman by the name Corey, that was fresh out of drama school and brimming with ideas and innovative new spins on the classic tale that everyone warmed up to instantly, proved remorseful, expressing her sincerest apologies for the absent ensemble member and the cast members affected by his tragical story. 

It’d been one month since they’d received word of the admittance. Sometimes Mendel wondered what he got up to in there, cooped up in a sterile ward that reeked of disinfectant and traumatic memories. He’d read somewhere, on one of the many long and debilitating nights during which he’d foregone sleep in favour of researching Marvin’s grave condition, that some rehabilitation facilities offered classes, such as pottery or painting or cookery, including the center their friend was checked into. At least he wouldn’t be bored to the brink of insanity, even if he was ill and starving. The center had been radio silent in terms of visitors, despite their profuse promises to inform Whizzer’s insistent, fretting mother when visits were permissible. Mendel supposed he simply wasn’t ready yet, and he and his friends would always respect his preferences and wishes, but it got awfully lonely without him and his snarky comments and reassuring presence. It felt as though there was a hole burned right in the middle of a tightly-woven quilt, one that’d taken years to fashion. Slowly, achingly slowly, the depression that’d settled over their beloved street began to ebb away, and some form of normalcy trickled back into the lives of its residents. The adults resumed their book club (well, it was more of a “drink wine and bitch about your children for three hours” club), and the kids no longer isolated themselves in contemplative and shameful solitude, looking back on recent events and wondering if maybe, just maybe, Marvin’s situation had been their fault. A good few of them sought advice and consolation in qualified therapists and doctors, who offered guidance on how to treat an eating disorder patient with proper care and attention, as well as methods to improve their own declining mental health. Oftentimes, they met up on weekends or after school to do homework, further their already-extensive research, or simply just catch up. They hadn’t realised how much they’d missed the assuaging company of one another, and constantly felt as though there was something new to fill each other in on. In terms of Fiddler, the director and her team worked tirelessly to reblock numbers that Marvin had been a part of, instructing the ensemble to sing out a touch more to make up for their absent cast member. In short, life continued on Campbell Street, its inhabitants going through the motions of their everyday lives. But a certain sadness remained; a dark cloud hanging moodily over their heads that would only disappear when justice was served. 

Averting her eyes briefly from the road flowing past them, Hannah stared at her twin brother, cocking her head slightly. He’d been in a strange headspace lately, what with his friend’s condition and all, and she’d spent hours sitting on the porch with him as the gleaming sprinkle of stars across the silent, navy midnight winked down at them with encouragement. Sometimes he’d ramble, and she’d listen attentively, hesitantly doling out shreds of shitty advice when he asked for it. Other times he’d whimper and cry, and with her sleeve she’d scrub the salty tears from the eyes of the boy who looked so identical to her, her heart wrenching with every grief-stricken, choking sob. And sometimes they wouldn’t say anything at all, but watch the sun poke its orange head out from behind the hills in comfortable silence, with the occasional sarcastic jab. She loved her brother, even if they squabbled about petty, unimportant things on a daily basis, and would do anything in her power to help out with the critical situation he’d become entwined in. “You okay? You haven’t said anything since you woke up,”

“Hey, eyes on the road. See, this is why your car has so many bumper stickers on it. ‘For the aesthetic’ my ass,” Mendel quipped, grinning when she rolled her eyes. 

Hannah narrowed her eyes, doing her best to fight back a chuckle. “Um, I don’t know what you’re pulling out of your ass, but Jane is living her best life,” 

“Jesus, what is it with this family and naming vehicles?”

“It’s hereditary, I guess,” Hannah said, swerving left into the vast, spacious school parking lot. “For real, is everything alright? You seem kinda… spacey. Is it your friend again?”

Mendel shrugged, shouldering his hefty rehearsal bag once the run-down vehicle had pulled to a stop in front of the main school pathway. “I guess. I know he’s getting the help he needs, but sometimes I can't help but worry things might get worse,”

The girl’s expression softened, and she leaned forward in the driver’s seat to push a stray curl from her brother’s apprehensive face. “Hey, listen up. Ma, all the others, and I aren’t gonna let that happen. Even if it means pressing charges or something. We’re making sure he gets all the love and attention he deserves,” she said, and she meant it. She’d overheard her mother talking over the phone to one of the neighbours about meeting up to research, and perhaps even taking the case up with a lawyer or judge to discuss legalities and where the boy may end up. It was rather thrilling, the exhilarating, tingling sensation of knowing that there most likely would be momentous change coming, once and for all. “Now get your ass inside, you’re probably already late,”

"And I wonder whose fault that is," Mendel said, and scrambled out of the car before his sister could hurl her empty coffee cup at his curly head. 

Upon entering the auditorium, Mendel’s ears were unwillingly met with the cacophonous clamour of around thirty high schoolers preparing for what was sure to be a strenuous first tech rehearsal. He was relieved to discover that a sizeable portion of the remainder of the cast weren’t completely off book yet either, a lot of them frantically running lines with castmates seated beside them in hushed voices when the director’s back was turned. Mendel located Whizzer in the far corner of the auditorium, chewing mournfully on a blueberry muffin he’d purchased to-go from the nearest Starbucks in the surrounding vicinity, the hood of his sweatshirt tugged over his hair - a clear sign that he hadn’t bothered to work his magic on those immaculate chestnut waves of his prior to attending rehearsal. Plastering on an awkward half-smile, Mendel slipped into a seat beside him. 

“Mornin’,” he said gently. “You ready for this week?”

“Absolutely not,” Whizzer moaned, and handed the boy beside him a Starbucks bag and a drink. It’d become a tradition of sorts for him to bring his friends breakfast on Saturday morning rehearsals, to the extent that the baristas began to associate his name and face with the order, and ceased in asking him what he wanted whenever he walked sleepily into the warm, aromatic shop every week. He’d never had the heart to inform them that Marvin’s order was no longer necessary. “I’ve managed to fuck up To Life nearly every time we ran it. Corey’ll be on my ass about it now that it’s tech week,” 

“Shit, yeah. Just keep a lookout for the chair, and don’t knock it and yourself over like last time. And the time before that. And, uh, every other time we’ve run that godforsaken dance,” Mendel snickered, taking a long swig of his drink. 

“Oh, fuck you,” Whizzer said exasperatedly, sticking his tongue out in retaliation. “I still don’t get why she thought putting it in the middle of the fucking stage was a good idea,”

As if on cue, Corey the director addressed her cast, informing them of what parts of the show were to be rehearsed and teched that day, followed by a full runthrough of the entirety of the show without stopping. Whizzer looked visibly terrified as he wolfed down the remnants of his muffin. 

“That isn’t your line,” Mendel laughed, looking up from his script at the lead, who sat on the floor in the boys’ dressing room, which was the primary congregation space for males who weren’t required at mic checks, costume fittings or onstage. Whizzer’s costume had been finalised at the previous rehearsal, and Mendel had his final fitting at a later time, at some point during the second act. Thus, the pair decided to make productive use of their time and run a scene or two they were struggling with. Only, it wasn’t exactly going very well. 

Groaning, Whizzer dragged his hands down his face, the light of his laptop screen casting an unflattering glow on his slight eyebags. “I’m shit at this scene,” he wined, and squinted at the screen. “ _Well, Tzeitel, my child, why are you so silent? Aren’t you happy with this blessing?”_

“If you have a PDF of the script open instead of your English essay, Whizzer Brown, then so help me-”

“Holy shit. Mendel, holy shit,” Whizzer gasped, urgency and shock suddenly filling his voice. “It’s a FaceTime request. From Marvin,”

Mendel’s umber eyes grew wide. “Bathroom. Now,”

After breaking into heated whisper-yells over who had more space perched atop the lid of the toilet in one of the grubby stalls they shared, Whizzer accepted the request, his fingers trembling as he pressed the green answer button. A picture of their drawn, yet smiling friend filled the lead’s computer screen.

“Holy fucking shit,” Mendel hissed. “Uh, hey, Marv! How're you?”

“As good as I can be in a fucking psych ward,” the boy said with a good-natured laugh. He was seated cross-legged atop a bed, dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie. Rehab was clearly working for him - he already seemed cheerier, and the dark circles under his sharp baby-blues were only just beginning to fade. Of course, he still had a long and winding road ahead of him, with plenty of twists, turns and obstacles, but the pair on the other end of the line were certain he’d be able to tackle it. “What about you guys?”

“We’re sitting on a toilet lid in the auditorium bathroom, and my darling friend Mendel is _hogging it_ -”

“Am not! Your butt literally takes up three-fourths of the seat. Like, look at that, and tell me I’m the one hogging it,” the New Yorker said indignantly, and Marvin grinned, despite the painful pang of bitterness he felt in the pit of his stomach. He missed this. He missed Fiddler and the director and the ensemble members he’d formed companionships with in the wings, whilst awaiting their cue to rush onstage. But even more so, he missed his close friends. Particularly the one that played the lead that made his insides tingle whenever he so much as glanced at him. 

They spoke for a good ten minutes, and Marvin filled them in on the gossip at the center, to which they listened intently. He informed them that he was doing alright for the most part, really just getting through the days and taking the whole eating thing step by step, just as his therapist had advised him in both individual sessions and group ones alike. Mendel and Whizzer smiled like proud fathers for the entirety of the conversation. He was alive. And, more importantly, he was okay. That was all they needed to keep them in high spirits for the rest of the week. 

“Shit, we’ve gotta go. I’m pretty sure we’re onstage just after this,” Whizzer said, almost apologetically. “Listen, it was so cool talking. We’re… we’re really glad you’re doing okay,”

“I am, too,” Marvin mumbled, running a hand through his hair. “Say hi to the others for me?”

“You got it,”

And with that, the screen reverted back to Whizzer’s half-completed essay that was most certainly not due in the next three hours. 

Maybe tech week wouldn’t be so horrible after all. 

  
  


_fin._


	23. days like this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the gang visit marvin at the rehab center.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SHE'S A L I V E  
> holy shit. i'm,,,, really really sorry????? shit went down and i wasn't able to use my laptop for writing so i took an unintentional hiatus of sorts, but i actually think it was good for me to take a break from writing for a little bit to focus on myself. anyway, i hope this chapter is good enough for an apology, it took me a couple days to fully finish (well,,, attempt to finish only to give up and put it off for some other time but that's the same thing right?), and i'm pretty happy with how it turned out! she's a bit long, and very intense, so please do read the trigger warnings listed at the end of this author's note, and do be careful/don't read if any of it could potentially harm you - your mental health is more important than any piece of writing. let me know if i missed any tags, i really hope you like it!
> 
> please please please keep signing petitions and doing what you can for blm!!! breonna taylor's murderers still walk free; their names are myles cosgrove, brett hankison, and jonathan mattingly. we have to keep fighting until we see change, and adequate justice is served for all black folks whose lives were tragically lost at the hands of police brutality and white privilege. no justice no peace.
> 
> take care, and have yourselves a wonderful day/night! <3
> 
> tw : hospitals/rehab centers, mentioned eating disorders, child abuse, verbal abuse, mentions of running from the police

Truth be told, he hadn’t expected this many. When the fatigued young receptionist at the sterile, congenial place that was Summerhill Rehabilitation Clinic had referred back to Campbell Street, informing them that Marvin Feldman was ready and willing to admit visitors, he received the largest shock one could get when their job consisted primarily of sitting behind a desk and typing up the name of any individual who stepped through the sliding, automatic glass doors of the sterile clinic with its harsh lights that strained the unaccustomed eye, all the while downing litres of bitter coffee and glaring (as best you could when your eyes threatened to flutter shut right then and there) at the bustling higher-up doctors and psychologists who would never even dream of associating with a lowly receptionist. He’d anticipated one, two, perhaps three people at a push, to be waiting at the desk to see the boy. What he hadn’t seen coming, not in the slightest, was the small army of parents and high-school-aged boys and girls, awkwardly loitering by the door clutching cards, flowers, handmade care packages, and an abundance of other gifts, doing their best to ignore the bewildered glances being shot in their general direction. Leading the awkward gaggle was a kind-faced, yet fierce-looking woman dressed in a burnt orange short-sleeved button-down shirt and a bandana to keep her cropped brown hair from her wavering eyes. The receptionist dropped his youthful face into his hands, rubbing circles into his temples with manicured fingers. It was too early for this shit. 

Trina could practically hear the receptionist - James, according to his crooked nametag - internally groaning as they approached. She wondered if this sudden influx of visitors would startle their ill friend, especially after he’d been living in isolation from all of them for what seemed like centuries, but in reality, was around a month and a bit. It surprised her that the receptionist hadn’t immediately instructed them to exit the premises due to their unusually-large number, but instead painstakingly looked up each and every one of their named in the hospital’s computer system, vocalising his annoyance in loud sighs and discreet eyerolls. Trina didn’t blame him - checking in ten people (both hers and Charlotte’s parents couldn’t make the visit, but vowed to when they were able) was a laborious task. Nervously, she twiddled with the green ribbon on the gift basket she’d assembled with her mother, eyes flickering about the busy waiting room. The lobby was very contemporary and sleek, all whitewashed walls and floor to ceiling windows, with the odd marble pillar here and there and teal accents. The sound of the phone ringing mingled with the low small-talk of civilians, the reception keyboard, and food carts rattling by. Nurses showed people up and down the stairs, psychologists compared therapy notes in hushed voices in a corner, and on occasion one could see a patient or two taking a stroll through the waiting area, or sitting under a tree in the vast, dense garden outside through the window. Wiping her sweating hands on her jeans, Trina felt a comforting hand squeeze her shoulder; Cordelia’s mother, Caroline. She smiled down at her reassuringly, blonde hair as curly as ever and cerulean eyes soft. Her daughter was a spitting image of her. 

“It’ll be alright, Trin. I’m sure he’s beyond excited,” she said.

Albeit exasperatedly, the receptionist explained that they were to wait on the teal couches until a nurse showed them to Marvin’s ward. The group complied without resistance, squashing up beside each other in whatever unoccupied spots they could snag. Cordelia sat on the lap of her girlfriend in a single plush armchair, and the myriad of parents that had tagged along spanned two sofas. Mendel found himself playing with soft foam building blocks with a gurgling toddler on the shaggy floor rug, while Emmett, Whizzer, and Trina were inconveniently pressed hip to hip alongside an elderly woman. All of them bore gifts of varying sizes, which also occupied space, to the chagrin and annoyance of numerous other visitors. The adults and kids alike spent nearly the entire wait time apologising for any inconvenience, minor or otherwise, that they could have caused. After around thirty minutes of apologising and apprehensive foot-tapping, a nurse called their names, and they followed her out the double lobby doors. 

It felt as though the vast and cumbersome clinic had been fashioned entirely out of staircases; the group had lost count of the ungodly number of slippery, polished marble steps the kindly nurse, dressed in wrinkled cyan scrubs, had led them up, and waited patiently on the carpeted landing, her elfish features contorted into an expression of obnoxious sympathy. It seemed like some twenty track records were a requirement on one’s resume, should they be seeking to apply for an occupation at the clinic. And no sooner had they reached the summit of the Everest-like mountain, known colloquially as the landing, and caught their breath, they were off on another flight of endless stairs. This continued for a solid ten minutes, before the party of climbers screeched to a halt in front of a ward. Nerves began to heighten, and tensions rose. Mendel pulled insistently at a loose string on his cardigan, and Trina began to fiddle with her basket’s ribbon again. 

“This is it,” the nurse announced - Eli, read her nametag. “Marvin Feldman,” 

And with that, she left the anxious gaggle to their own devices. Composing themselves, they shuffled awkwardly over the threshold, attempting to mask their blatant apprehension. 

The depressing thing was, the hospital room that the boy had only been staying in for a mere month, appeared more homely and convivial than his shared bedroom back at their eerie townhouse with the ominous grey door. It was tastefully decorated (by professionals, Whizzer had later found out - Marvin did not possess any interior design skills to speak of), with oodles of vibrant natural light spilling through the sheer, off-white drapes and a soft, pleasant colour palette. Above the bed was a collage of pictures. Pictures of all of them.

“Who designed this room?” Cordelia said breathlessly, setting down her flower bouquet as she took in the room. “Da Vinci? Van Gogh, maybe?”

“Nice to see you too, Dee. Been a while, hasn’t it?” Marvin said, the usual trenchancy they’d all missed so dearly seeping into his words as he looked up at the girl, smiling. His sardonic grin only broadened when she poked her tongue out at him, narrowing her cerulean eyes in mock irritation.

He denied this every time his friends jested about it subsequent to the visit, but Whizzer was on the verge of tears as he stood, dumbfounded, in the doorway. Prior to the call he’d received on the first day of tech week, the boy had been nothing short of paranoid. Media represented mental institutions and rehabilitation centers as eldritch places of horror and mania, and the baseball player had worried that some demonic being would attempt to possess his friend at the witching hour, when all was dark and tangibly silent at Summerhill, or something of the sort. But the call had taught him otherwise; places like these were what people turned to when the chips were down, when it seemed as though any previous glimmers of warm, yellow hope had been thrown to the wind, and life was an endless labyrinth, full of dead ends but void of any escape route. What people turned to to get  _ better.  _ Was Marvin getting better? He certainly looked it, but Whizzer figured it was too early to tell. Slowly but surely, the colour was returning to his face, and his cheeks had plumped up slightly if you squinted. Maybe he did need time away from Campbell Street, and if that was required in order to nurse his best friend back to health, then Whizzer and all his friends would readily pay the price. 

Charlotte perched herself on the edge of the bed, balancing her elbows on her thighs and cupping her chin with her hand. “Listen, Marv, it’s nice to see you and all, but I need the deets,”

“Who the fuck says ‘deets’ anymore?”

“Shut up, Whizzer,” 

“Deets?” Marvin raised his eyebrows, running a hand through his hair. It was looking considerably softer and lustrous since the day he’d left, no longer coarse and frizzy. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know,” Charlotte said, but grinned all the same. “Mendel told me last night over the phone instead of helping me with the Home Ec homework like he  _ promised _ -”

“I didn’t know how to do it either, I just needed you to answer your fucking phone for once,” Mendel interjected indignantly, toying with his hair in the hospital room’s small circular mirror. 

The Southerner sighed with exasperation. “Anyways, he told me about Clara? The girl from two doors down?”

“Oh shit, yeah,” Marvin snapped his fingers as realisation slowly dawned upon him. “She’s not dating Jake anymore,”

“Good for her,” Cordelia piped, a shiteating grin plastered across her features. She turned away from the window, where she’d been examining the picturesque view of the sinking orange sun. “That bitch was toxic, anyway. Sorry, Mom,” she added, on seeing Caroline visibly flinch from where she’d been conversing with Estelle upon hearing her daughter’s utterance of such a blasphemous word.

They conversed with hearty enthusiasm for a bit, Anne-Marie fussing over Marvin and ensuring the institution wasn’t doing anything they shouldn’t be, even offering to take on a part-time role with her nursing degree from BYU to keep an eye him should it be necessary. The invalid filled his friends in on other details concerning the turbulent, dramatic love life of resident Dallas Ward sweethearts, Jake and Clara. The wards were named after American cities, which everyone in the room rather enjoyed the idea of. Whizzer figured it must be difficult, battling a mental disorder and a complicated relationship. He felt for the girl, honestly.

“Marvin!” called a voice, and everyone in the room buttoned their lips instantly, heads snapping attentively towards the door, not letting down their guard. 

They heard her before they saw her. The Feldman brothers could recognise that menacing click of high heels on any day of the week. Continuously, she called Marvin’s name, and the guests rustled around, some stationing themselves protectively at each side of the bed, and others fearfully loitering by the little desk situated in the corner of the room. Anne-Marie looked murderous, and Frieda, standing by the curtains with her trembling daughter, already had fished her phone from the depths of her handbag, ready to call for the nearest police station at a moment’s notice should the need arise. Emmett clutched the hand of Whizzer’s mother, his face as white as a sheet, miniscule beads of sweat trickling like raindrops down the side of his thin face. Karen Feldman strode into the room, her dyed blonde hair tightly pinned at the back of her head, and her grey corduroy suit jacket and matching pencil skirt wrinkled and disheveled. She hadn’t touched up her roots for some time, what with fleeing to Boston on suspiciously-lengthy ‘business trips’ from the Rochester police to narrowly avoid incarceration, probably. The lady was positively fuming, chest heaving like a slumbering beast as cold, slanted baby-blue eyes flickered with incandescence around the room, assessing each terrified expression. Nurse Eli came up short behind her, bending over to catch her breath. She must’ve had to chase her up the mountainous steps - an impossible feat for even the highly-athletic Summerhill nurses. 

It was then that a great silence fell upon the room, one so thick you could touch it. Instinctively, Whizzer grabbed ahold of the first thing he could see that could function as a potential makeshift weapon, and his mother’s grasp on Emmett’s sweating, shaking hand only tightened. Speaking of her, she was the individual who elected to break the horrific silence. 

“What… what are you doing here?” she growled, pausing threateningly between each word.

“I-I thought you were on a business trip,” Emmett stammered, and didn’t even want to know what must’ve been going on in the brain of his older brother at that moment. 

“I was, until I heard about this… arrangement,” the woman sniffed, eyeing the hospital room like it were a garbage dump. 

“What do you want?” Cordelia said, voice wobbling.

“I’m here to take my son home,” she said, slamming her purse into Nurse Eli’s chest, causing her to double over in unexpected shock. “All this was done against my wishes, and it’s not as if these doctors are treating him or anything. In fact, they’re only making it worse,”

“That’s against protocol, ma’am. We can’t discharge patients unless the doctors give us the green light, and we’ve been told that Mr Feldman here is by no means ready to leave just yet,” Nurse Eli said coldly from the doorway, shoving past the woman and practically flinging her purse back at her. 

“And you’re just a nurse, you don’t hold any authority. I’ll talk to whoever runs this godforsaken shithole. In the meantime, get your things, Marvin, Emmett, because we’re leaving,”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Whizzer screamed, his voice raw and hoarse and shaky with sobs. “He- he has an eating disorder, and it’s all-”

“Just shut your fucking mouth, Whizzer!” came Marvin’s voice, panicked and tired. The crescendo of angry clamour dwindled into silence once more, and Whizzer could see Marvin swing his legs off the side of the bed through his blurred, teary vision. “C’mon, Em,”

The last thing the others remembered was the defeating sound of the varnished wooden door clicking shut. Nobody knew what to do or how to react. As Frieda and Caroline consoled the shaken, panicked nurse Whizzer trudged over to where his mother was composing herself in the mirror, running her hands down her face and twirling strands of hair around her finger in agitation. “We can’t just let her do this, Mama. Aren’t we gonna go after her?”

“I’m one step ahead of you, kiddo,” the woman exhaled heavily, adjusting her shirt. “Let’s kill a bitch,” Her son smiled wetly, and together they took to the stairs. 

They caught the trio just before they managed to slip unnoticed out the automatic lobby doors. As per his mother’s instructions, Whizzer rushed to inform a security officer, while Anne-Marie readied herself to square up to the woman. 

“You need to leave,” she said, her voice dangerously low. “Now. Before I call the police,”

“Why should I? You’re not their mother, what I do with them is none of your business,”

“Listen here, woman. It’s my business when it involves my son’s friends. More importantly, I’m pretty goddamn sure it’s my business when a kid is a victim of child abuse. Leave, right now. Let your son get the help he needs to fix your fucking mistakes,” Anne-Marie looked nearly comical if it weren’t for the look of red fury that could make even the proudest, most aggressive lion cower and whimper, standing at her meager height of five foot four to Karen’s looming five nine. 

“It’s expensive,” Karen said. “And I’m not about to pay for it. I found the bill in the mail. Two thousand dollars for him to do jack shit,”

“Then I’ll pay it. Just leave him be, the last thing he wants is to be around you,”

As though on cue, Whizzer joined the throng, accompanied by a black female guard dressed in blue. Underneath her cap, her dark hair was in dreadlocks that cascaded like black waterfalls past her shoulders. Skye was her name, printed in capitals on a gold nametag just underneath her shimmering security badge. “I’m going to have to ask you to remove yourself from the premises, madam,” she said, with a slight Southern lilt. “Or we’ll contact the authorities,”

“Now, you-”

“Save it for court,” Emmett smirked, folding his arms, and Marvin did the same. Skye glared pointedly in her direction. Defeated, the woman had no choice but to huff haughtily and trot primly out the door. 

The quiet after the storm. Everyday sounds of the lobby had resurfaced, and anyone watching had resumed any previous task they’d been doing prior to the verbal altercation. Marvin hadn’t said a word through it all, and remained silent for some time, before tears began to run down his face, and before he could get a word in edgewise he was in floods of tears right in the middle of the fucking lobby, and people had begun to stare again. 

“Thanks. Thanks so much,” was all he could manage, before he was suddenly engulfed in the most loving hug he could firmly say he’d ever been given. Anne-Marie stroked his hair as he sobbed onto her short-sleeved button-down, and Whizzer rubbed his shoulder comfortingly as Emmett traces soothing shapes into his back.

“Hey, it’s okay, you’re safe now. Look, she’s gone now. You’re alright,” Whizzer kept whispering, in the hopes that it would help even a little bit. 

“I’ve got you, kiddo, Anne’s got you,”

And it was in that moment that Marvin felt more appreciated and loved than he had in all his eighteen years of existence.

  
  


_ fin.  _


	24. the snow glows white on the mountain tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in true weisenbachfeld fashion, mendel asks trina to prom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> materialises from the abyss  
> uhhhh hello!!! i'm not dead!!! my motivation decided to wander off again, you know how it is. i don't know when she'll be back again, and so i can't promise regular updates, it'll be more whenever i feel guilty or getting a sudden burst of inspiration lmao. nevertheless, take this idea my brain suddenly had while i was scrolling through promposal ideas on the internet in search of an idea for this cursed piece of utter fucking chaos. i think we all deserve it after the emotional rollercoaster of the last couple chapters. i promise you this fic ends happily. but! i thought i'd focus on something that wasn't marvin's tragic backstory for a bit, and so i hope you enjoy whatever this is! 
> 
> go sign some petitions, take care and be safe at protests, and remember that all lives can't matter until black lives matter. no justice no fucking peace. 
> 
> till we meet again!
> 
> \- sammie :)

Mendel Joseph Weisenbachfeld was notorious amongst the masses for his bizarre - and, more often than not, nugatory - schemes, and outlandish ploys that evoked a concerned fascination in the peculiar mechanisms behind his brain within nearly every person he could call himself even mildly acquainted with. A prime example of the boy’s odd mind at work was the occasion on which he’d purposefully dropped his mother’s wedding ring into the defective paper mache volcano he’d constructed, albeit poorly, for the third grade science fair back in the lively, crowded city of Queens, in the naive and childish hope that it would disintegrate into the depths of the food dyed dish soap, and all malevolence and evil would be obliterated for the remainder of time, just as it was in the renowned book and film saga. As it turned out, eight-year-old Mendel didn’t singlehandedly save the entirety of the human race, but rather ended up with a smarting backside and a television restriction for a fortnight, which felt to him like agony of the highest and most painful degree, because the fictitious adventures of Scooby Doo and the Mystery Gang appeared to be the only relatively interesting thing to occur in his seemingly-dull childhood. Well, before his father turned out to be an asshole and legged it that very same year. To this day, Mendel stood by the proclamation that he’d really been doing poor Estelle a favour by throwing her wedding ring into a feigned fire of baking soda and coloured dish soap. The only difference was, she actually agreed with him this time. 

But this idea was unorthodox, even for Mendel. Depending on how you perceived it, it was either the greatest or the worst idea to ever cross his curious mind. Senior prom was fast approaching, and he’d made the executive decision to try his horrible luck in asking someone to accompany him to the raucous event of awkward dancing and imminent relationship issues between the students at the top of the graduating class hierarchy that would most likely end with discarded suit jackets and fistfights outside the venue, and tears shed in the run-down toilets with the vandalised bathroom stalls. Trouble was, the boy had been forced to accept the harsh and savvy truth: any human being possessive of merely half a braincell would rather jump off the Eiffel Tower completely nude than be seen in any form of romantic light with Mendel Weisenbachfeld, the boy who somehow managed to dress like a grandfather and a toddler simultaneously, the boy who wrote strange analogies that were comprehensible to nobody but himself into his essays, the boy who owned too many dying houseplants for his own good. In summary, he’d conceded long ago that perhaps he wasn’t exactly what would be conventionally deemed by society as “boyfriend material”. Nevertheless, he was willing to put whatever last few dregs of dignity that remained in him on the line for the one girl that would maybe, just maybe, offer him half a chance at the daunting business that was being a prom date, and hopefully a boyfriend at some point, too. Mendel wondered if that was pushing the boundaries a tad. No, it was best to focus all his limited attention span on one thing at a time if he wanted to pull off this crazy, far-fetched scheme. But he couldn’t do it alone, and so he enlisted the help of two people that most definitely knew a thing or two when it came to asking someone out. 

“Out of all your weird ideas that you somehow think will work, ‘Del, I think you’ve peaked. Like, this is the one,” Charlotte sighed, swinging her legs as she sat on the narrow ledge of his windowsill with the peeling paint. 

“What are you talking about? This is the best promposal idea in the history of promposal ideas,” Mendel rebutted, running his fingers through knotted ebony curls. “Plus, it’s original. You don’t see the varsity footballers asking their girlfriends to prom like this,”

Charlotte scoffed, folding her arms. “You’re seriously comparing yourself to the fucking varsity football team?”

It was then that Cordelia, wearing a blue A-lined dress with puff sleeves and an aesthetically-pleasing gingham pattern, shuffled through the door, carrying a reusable Starbucks cup filled with some form of iced coffee in one hand, and a bluetooth speaker she’d illicitly obtained from her brother’s room in the other. “I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this,” she admitted, sitting heavily on the bed and grinning with amusement. “But you guys are adorable, so that cancels the weirdness out. Sort of,”

“Just don’t think for a second we’re gonna let you live it down,” Charlotte added, hopping down from the windowsill. “The sun’s gonna set soon. We should work on the sign before it gets too dark,”

And so, borrowing Hannah’s box of art supplies, they worked to the best of their ability to fashion a half-decent promposal sign. Mendel’s queer vision consisted of a theme, in loving and intimate commemoration of something momentous, something special that had occurred throughout the lengthy timeline of his and Trina’s relationship. After days and nights and dull classes spent devising a plan that, while perhaps not traditional, could be perceived as sweet or heartfelt, the boy remembered the first film the pair had seen whenever she’d moved from Missouri with her father and older sister at the age of twelve. Following an extremely awkward synagogue service during which the children had devoted more time to making hesitant eye contact and then hurriedly averting their gaze than actual prayer, the two families had attended a screening of Frozen at the movie theatre located inside the nearest shopping mall on the first Saturday the Aronowitzes spent in Rochester. And thus, the idea of showing up at her house in an Elsa dress, while screeching the lyrics to  _ Let It Go  _ at the top of his lungs was born. He’d most likely end up embarrassing her, and then she’d want nothing to do with him, platonically or otherwise, but it was the only idea he had, and it might make her laugh, at the very least. But now was probably the most inconvenient time to overthink, and so Mendel shoved any speculations or intimidating thoughts concerning the aftermath of his request to the back of his mind, his heart racing at a million miles an hour with trepidation and adrenaline. 

Outside, the trio stood nervously before Trina’s house - the one with the lilac door. Mendel prayed that none of their other friends would leave the house unwarranted; he didn’t want to be laughed at a sooner date than he’d mentally prepared himself for, thank you very much. 

“You should throw a rock at the window, babe,” Cordelia instructed her girlfriend, nodding subtly towards their friend’s bedroom window. 

“Forgive me if this is a big left-field, love, but can’t we, yknow, knock?”

“Of course we can’t just  _ knock _ ,” Mendel spat. “Knocking is for boring people who are condemned to a life behind a desk at a failing paper company because they took no risks when asking someone out to senior prom,”

The blonde nodded enthusiastically. “Precisely,”

“Alright, but if this breaks the window, you’re the ones that’ll be sued for property damage,”

The pebble ricocheted off the pane, not even denting the glass. Bewildered, Trina lifted it open, sticking her head out the window and staring confusedly at the waving Charlotte. Mendel hid behind a giggling Dee, so as to not ruin the surprise. 

“Everything okay, Char?” Trina yelled, peering confusedly down at the gaggle. 

“Yeah, everything’s fine! Could you come down? We wanna ask you something,”

Trina shut the window and thundered down the steps, doing her best to mask the giggles that bubbled like bile in her throat. Little did she know, it was at this point that things started to take a turn for the worse for Mendel and the lesbians. 

She couldn’t have opened the front door at a more inexpedient time. Charlotte was in the midst of a futile attempt at pulling a long, braided wig over Mendel’s curly head, while Cordelia attempted to connect her phone to the speaker. A petrified silence descended upon the threesome as they stared up at Trina in unison, three sets of eyes wide with perturbation. 

“Fuck it, just go!” Dee shouted in alarm, pushing the boy down the driveway. 

And so, Mendel forewent the cheap dollar store wig and the karaoke track, and paraded shamelessly around Trina’s vast driveway, while the girl laughed uncontrollably from the front porch, clutching at her aching stomach while the boy sang loud enough for the entire neighbourhood to hear. Even Whizzer and his family caught on, observing the spectacle from across the road. Once the last verse came to a conclusion, Mendel approached the girl, who gasped for air as tears of mirth streamed down her face. 

“I think you’re swell, Trin,” he said breathlessly, chest heaving. “Will you go to prom with me?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she shook her head fondly, throwing her arms around his neck in a hug. 

“So…. is that a yes?”

“Of course it’s a yes, you fucking expired coupon,”

Mendel didn’t think he’d ever forget the applause that rang through the neighbourhood for as long as he lived. 

  
  


_ fin.  _


	25. order in the court

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the neighbourhood figures out the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW OKAY I JUST SORT OF PERISHED ON ALL OF YOU HOLY SHIT  
> this took me,,,,, weeks?? because i'd written some of it a little bit ago but never had the motivation to finish. nevertheless, it's here now, the long-awaited Court Fic and possibly the climax of this entire story as a whole. i'm so so excited about this, and i'm really really sorry about the wait, but i hope you like it! i'll shut up now, but before i go, please please please keep talking about black lives matter!! it's been a few months now, but we have to keep spreading awareness. this movement isn't a trend. it's not something we can talk about for a week or so, and then allow it to die down and ignore the fact that the wrongs have not been righted, and the countless black folks that have been killed or seriously injured due to police brutality have not been treated with respect because their murderers are still free. breonna taylor. nathaniel julius. cornelius fredericks. please keep advocating, keep signing petitions, keep going to protests if you can, we have to keep working. 
> 
> tw : mentions of vomiting, forced starvation, weight, divorce/bad marriages, court, hospitals, child abuse, alcoholism

From the moment he’d screwed open his baby blues that fateful morning, an almost painful nausea had settled in the pit of Marvin’s stomach. Technically speaking, it’d been there for the past week or so, a gaping, bottomless black hole of perturbation gradually manifesting inside of him that had plagued the boy incessantly since he’d received word of the court date’s finalisation. On some days he could repress it, shove his anxieties and intrusive thoughts to the back of his mind as he went about his day in Dallas Ward - catching up on schoolwork, cracking morbid and niche jokes or memorable anecdotes with Jo and Freddie from Phoenix in the optional pottery class offered by Summerhill as they fashioned misshapen bowls and pots, skim-reading the array of books on the overstuffed shelves in the dayroom during quiet time, going to group and individual therapy. Getting better. Healing. He somewhat enjoyed life at the clinic, if you could call it that. No, it was more of a humbling appreciation; for the kids who were in there for reasons not unlike his own, for the nurses and doctors and psychologists that’d seen it all before, to the extent that they’d grown accustomed to it, for the tranquility and the routine and the feeling that him, Clara from two doors down, Billy from across the hall, and every other child in the godforsaken place were some form of family. A dysfunctional, mentally unstable family, but a family nonetheless. They understood one another. And they were in this together.

But on other days, it wasn’t so easy. He’d hardly leave his spot staring up at the ceiling from his bed, the nausea and the queasiness of what was soon to come weighing him down, maliciously toying with his mind. He’d skip pottery class, and yearn for the lighthearted atmosphere as he reluctantly allowed his nerves to claw hungrily at his thoughts. So badly did he want to skip out on meals, out of fear that the food would only just come back up again due to queasiness. The nurses had other ideas, however, and he was admittedly grateful that they did. God knew his old habits would resurface and all his progress tarnished if they allowed him to miss mealtimes. The other kids on the ward asked him what was wrong, how they could help, but Marvin remained silent. He didn’t want to burden them with the sob story he was doing his best to overcome and forget about. At night, he wouldn’t sleep until he could see the sun rising, its radiant light peering at him from behind the sheer, cream-coloured drapes. But all of it, the good days and the bad, the nausea and the fear, the swirling void inside him - every single aspect boiled down to today. To a few hours’ time. He’d received a special pardon from the hospital to leave the premises for any legal meetings pertaining to his case, today being the first of many. Anne-Marie was scheduled to collect him at ten sharp, and then drive to the courthouse for the meeting. It was eight in the morning, early just yet; he had a few hours to kill. Marvin inhaled sharply, running a hand through his matted curls as his free hand groped for his glasses on the dresser, careful to avoid the sharp corner he’d cut his wrist on accidentally on his first night at the clinic. He could do this. 

Breakfast was two slices of beans-on-toast, which he’d eaten without much difficulty. Good. He couldn’t afford a bad day if he was to show in court in a few hours. He didn’t bother to change out of the hoodie and checked trousers he called pajamas - he wasn’t about to pull on the austere navy suit and tie hanging jeeringly on the closet doorhandle any sooner than was critically necessary. Marvin wandered into the dayroom, unsurprised to find himself alone, save for Richard, a child of about eleven, who wore Transformers pajamas and sat on the carpeted floor, playing with a set of toy cars he’d found in the toybox intended for the younger kids. Nobody know the reason why Richard was at Summerhill, and Marvin was, quite frankly, rather frightened of him, but everyone on the ward felt a nearly parental need to protect and care for him. The adolescent was somewhat fond of children (he hoped to have one of his own someday) and thus elected to offer the boy some company as he raced his cars. By half-past nine, nearly half of Dallas Ward had filed sleepily into the bright dayroom, and the boy exchanged pleasantries with the handful of people he could call himself acquaintances with, before disappearing into his room to prepare for the day ahead. 

His shower was brief, and his clothes felt foreign. The nausea seemed to have amplified, and Marvin had to use all his strength not to keel over in discomfort. Amongst his queasiness was a strange anticipation. Jubilance, dejection, fear and exhilaration all morphed into one. Knotting his tie, he gulped, exhaling deeply in an attempt to soothe his nerves. There wasn’t a point in bothering with his hair all too much. It never seemed to cooperate with him anyway. He combed his fingers through it to relieve the knots, and decided that was presentable enough. 

“Marvin?” a voice said. Nurse Kennedy, head of Dallas Ward, poked her head in the door. “Your ride’s outside. Ready?”

One side of Marvin’s mouth quirked upwards in an awkward half-smile. “As I’ll ever be,” he said, and followed her out the door and down the multitude of steps. 

The tension registered in the champagne-coloured car the boy recognised as that of the Price-Brown family, was nearly tangible, settling like a thick, somber sheet of dust over each passenger. At the wheel sat a flustered Anne-Marie, frowning at her pallid, blotchy reflection in the scuffed rearview mirror, trying her hardest to mask any form of evidence that could plausibly affirm the fact that she’d been terrified beyond measure the previous night, which she’d rather leave the judge and her lawyer (that appeared to be trying to flirt with her at any given moment despite her numerous exasperated reiterations of her twenty-year marriage) blissfully ignorant of, thank you very much. Even the mere thought of last night’s grim turn of events sent quivers like miniature shockwaves down her spine, ones that made her wriggle and squirm with utmost discomfort. She remembered the basin on her and Adam’s bedside table that filled the master bedroom with the pungent stench of her watered-down dinner. The retching and the sobbing and the ache in her belly that never left her, regardless of how often she keeled over and dumped a day’s worth of food into a spare bowl from their kitchen, her fatigued husband holding her hair away from her face and rubbing circles into her back as he sang words of consolement that fell on deaf ears. 

She wore a plain, solemn dress - rather reflective of her disposition on that humid, clammy May morning. On seeing the boy slide into the backseat beside his little brother, who toyed with his collar in panic, she offered him an attempt at a reassuring grin, but it appeared forced and insincere. A wordless Whizzer sat beside her, nose buried in some textbook. Leave it to him to put off exam revision until the day he was to sit the paper, taking every chance he was able to grasp to frantically cram as much information as possible, including in the car en route to the courthouse. His suit was a flattering deep grey, paired with a cream dress shirt underneath and a tie that Anne-Marie nearly resorted to brute force in order to convince him to wear. Emmett’s choice of courtroom-wear was simple, yet charming in its own special form. A navy shirt and green knit tie, accompanied by a burgundy V-necked jumper. Looking up at his older brother, he raised his eyebrows in greeting.

“Nervous?” Marvin said, trying to break the tension, despite his awareness that he wasn’t making a very good job of it. 

“Yeah,” his brother replied, and rightfully so. “I’m trying not to think about it too much. Not till we get there, at least,”

“What do you mean, you aren’t trying to think about it? We’re gonna be at the fucking courthouse in ten minutes,” Marvin chuckled, and on that note, the drive began. 

The courthouse was large and intimidating, with varnished wooden walls and an amount of seating pews that rivalled those at the local synagogue. Two tables were situated near the front of the room, facing the judge’s tall podium. Fashioned out of mosaic were the curious, abstract patterns on the floor, and Marvin found himself walking along the curves and bends. As per the instruction of Anne-Marie’s lawyer, he and Emmett followed Whizzer to where they would be seated until summoned to the stand. Heaving out a shaky sigh, he ran his sweaty palms along his thighs, mustering up every ounce of willpower and might in his body to not choke up. It was finally happening. Years and years of being subject to so much physical and emotional turmoil, and it was finally happening. His mother would get her just desserts, so long as Anne-Marie was present and the court officials were half-decent human beings. 

Glancing over at him, Whizzer hesitantly placed a shaking hand over his, grazing his fingers over Marvin’s white knuckles. “It’s alright. I know it seems terrifying, but I promise you, everything will turn out fine,”

The bailiff stood, addressing the attendees. “Order in the court, all rise, please,”

The judge entered the room, and Marvin instantly felt lightheaded. Had he remained upstanding for a second longer, he was certain to have toppled over right there and then. 

Call him strange, and perhaps heartless, but it was oddly satisfying to hear his parents being arraigned. It was evident that his mother was at war with her twisted mind, thoughts racing as she tried to remain calm, but there was a certain fiery look in her piercing, assertive blue eyes that made the hearts of both sons hammer - like she could snap at any second. His father, on the other hand, was less so, face chalky and glimmering with sweat and sunken eyes wavering fearfully about the room, searching in panic for the undo button, for the time machine that could transport him back to the day his firstborn son saw the light, pink and chubby and wailing, and start afresh. Do it properly. Be a father. Or better yet, move-in day at university. When he’d packed up and bid adieu to his parents in Vermont for his first year living on the co-ed hall at Boston College. He should have never propped his door open with the upended laundry basket he’d purchased within three hours upon arrival. He should have never allowed the social work major from across the hall to borrow the screwdriver he wasn’t quite sure why he had with him. He should have never introduced himself or permitted himself to be dragged around by her. None of it should’ve happened. Because if it hadn’t, he certainly wouldn’t be nursing a particularly nasty drink habit, much less standing timorously by her side in a godforsaken courtroom, making a futile attempt at defending himself against a crime he’d known for ages that he’d committed. 

“How do you plead?”

“Not guilty,” Karen stated, her voice thin and on the verge of breaking. 

He didn’t have to defend himself. He didn’t have to lie. 

“Guilty,”

And for once, he didn’t cower or shrink away in fear when his wife, if one could even perceive their relationship as anything more than a partnership documented on paper, looked at him as though he’d struck her across the face. 

Following the opening statements, the prosecution began calling witnesses to the stand. Anne-Marie was up first, and her son thought she looked rather like a deer in the headlights. The ocean of people looked up at her encouragingly.  _ Save him,  _ they all seemed to be chanting in perfect, frankly sinister unison.  _ Get him out of there.  _ And it was all the motivation required for her to clear her throat and compose herself. 

“Would you please state your name for the court?” the bailiff asked, clear and firm. 

“Anne-Marie Joana Brown,” she said in response, and spelled it out when prompted. The woman selected to swear her veracity upon a holy book, and, placing her hand upon the Torah book provided by the court, vowed her honesty. 

The longer she spent on the stand, she found, the simpler stating her case became. The lawyer’s questions were answered in as much detail as was acceptable, and she ensured to leave no key detail unmentioned; this woman deserved hell for the unspeakable crimes she’d committed, but if Anne-Marie couldn’t give her that, then she’d concede to something similar without any further question. She spoke of the early signs that she’d harboured in her brain, kept tucked safely away for future use, should there ever need to be. The very minute it dawned on her that something seemed abnormal and wrong when, while collecting Whizzer and Natalie from the local middle school, she saw the woman ever-so-discreetly pry the cupcake her firstborn had received in class for a child’s birthday from his hands, harshly berating him in front of a gaggle of concerned parents when he quietly protested. The lunches, the showdown at the hospital, anything and everything that could possibly help them win, was thrown into the mix. She could have spieled on for hours, but respectfully took her seat when the lawyer asked her to. 

When Whizzer was called to testify, he shot Marvin a look that the boy couldn’t quite read, before shuffling up to the stand and pledging to tell the truth. 

“Have you ever visited the Feldman residence?” the lawyer asked him, eyes flickering from his notes to the boy.

“Yes,” he said at length, gulping. He could feel a singular bead of sweat trickling down his face as he tried to piece together the distant memory. 

“Do you remember the date?”

“Uh, March seventh,”

“And what can you recall from your visit?”

Whizzer rubbed his eyes briefly, feeling goosebumps break out all over his body. The courtroom was slightly cold, and the fear evoked by the memory of the mentioned visit certainly wasn’t improving matters. “I-I remember there were zipties around… around the fridge. And the wine closet was empty. I asked where the bathroom was, and I was told I couldn’t use the one downstairs because it was leaking,”

“Where were the accused at the time of the visit?” the lawyer pressed. 

“Abe was home, I remember. In the study. And Karen was away on a business trip,”

“How far back can you retrace your memory of instances in which Mr Feldman was being neglected?”

Luckily for the court, and not so much for the defence - that were, at this point, desperately pulling shit from their asses in a futile attempt to paint the Feldman parents in a light that wasn’t utterly despicable - Whizzer had come prepared for this question exactly. With no hesitation, he informed the astonished lawyer of incidents dating all the way back to the year the boy had first moved to Rochester from Boston. From his seat, Marvin snuck a glance at the attorneys being paid to defend his parents. One had her head in her hands, rubbing her temples in defeat, and the other appeared lethargic and tired, dragging an apathetic hand down his boyish face. The boy grinned as widely as was acceptable in the current circumstances (which, admittedly, wasn’t very wide at all). He could just about see their precisely-concocted scheme of winning the judge over and leaving Karen with custody of him and Emmett, thus subjecting them to further abuse, come crashing down in shambles before their very eyes. Marvin felt his heart lift as Whizzer continued to feed the offence attorneys details of prior instances of neglect in what could only be described as meticulous detail. He had an inkling that maybe, if the planets aligned and the odds were in their favour, they could just about manage to snag a win. 

He was up next, and inevitably interrogated for far longer than the previous witnesses combined. They asked him to describe, in as extensive detail as he was comfortable with, several examples of his mother’s methods of abuse to which he’d always been harshly reprimanded for his attempts at objection, because in her twisted, backwards mind, they were for his own benefit.

“Permission to approach the witness?” the attorney queried, and at the judge’s nod, tentatively made their way over to the witness stand. In their grasp was an item, a wrinkled piece of paper scribbled upon with felt tip pen in hardly-legible scrawl. Marvin’s breath hitched. The room began to spin, voices and colours distorting into an ugly, taunting mess. The attorney’s resonant tones felt like water in his ears, and although he never caught what was being asked of him, he could deduce it without much contemplation. Hundreds of tiny knots formed in his stomach, the kind so small that they were essentially impossible to pick apart. The Olympic gymnastics routine occurring in his digestive area at that moment made Marvin want to throw up on the polished, simple brown brogues the attorney wore on his feet. He knew exactly what that sheet of paper was - he’d seen it on more occasions than he’d have liked to remember, tacked to the tiled wall in the downstairs bathroom. “Can you identify this for the court?”

All knowledge of the English language suddenly eluding him, Marvin swallowed, tugging at the sleeves of his suit jacket. “Uh… um… that’s the, uh, the weight chart,” he managed, his voice cracking on the final word. “She-she’d use it to, uh, check I wasn’t gaining weight or anything,”

A painful, stunned silence descended upon the courtroom. Nobody dared even let out a meek cough. Karen appeared visibly affronted, like she didn’t know where to look in her utter embarrassment. Due to the amount of sweat pouring off his face, her husband looked as though he’d walked through a heavy rainstorm for hours. Meanwhile, the cogs were turning in Whizzer’s brain, grinding and crunching like factory machines. Despite the initial anxiety channelled towards the idea of going on trial, he was internally glad that it was taking place, for if it hadn’t, they wouldn’t possess as many answers to all the puzzling questions that swam in the heads of all who resided at Campbell Street, as they did at that point in time. That was why he’d stopped eating the lunches Anne-Marie prepared for him. Because of the chart. Because of the numbers. Out of fear that if he gained weight, and there was written evidence to show for it, the Browns would land themselves in a world of confusion and trouble. 

“Is anyone outside your family aware of this chart?” the attorney queried, throwing Marvin a sympathetic glance on seeing him so pale and vulnerable. 

Pausing briefly, Marvin gathered his wits and his breath, running his fingers through his hair with apprehension. Gulping, he inhaled, then exhaled, and felt somewhat calmer. “Yes. Whizzer, uh, Andrew. He knew. But I made him keep it a secret, ‘cause I knew I’d be in trouble if anyone else found out,”

Emmett was interrogated afterward, and the rest of the trial passed in a flurry of questions, answers, gasps, and general dramatics. Marvin’s head was pounding, and he rubbed his temples in an attempt to relieve the searing pain, whilst staring questioningly at the two leading offense attorneys, who were frowning at a sheet of paper together, the contents of said paper presumably being Marvin’s answers to their questions. At the end of all the proceedings, the judge vacated the room, leaving the entire room on tenterhooks as they awaited the verdict. Somehow, Marvin found himself nestled into Anne-Marie, listening to her quiet words of consolement and trying to believe that they would become reality. He’d leave home. Emmett, too, and they’d live with the woman that’d been a more prominent mother figure than the woman who’d given birth to both of them. As for their father - oh, their father - well, truth be told, they somewhat hoped he’d be let off a little easier. Probation, maybe, or a hefty fine. He’d never hurt the boys, nor did he weigh his oldest son weekly, but the man was no saint either. But nobody deserved to own a marriage certificate that betrothed them to the most half-assed excuse for a wife that Marvin and Emmett had ever seen. 

The judge strided primly back into the courtroom, and everyone watched with bated breath as she resumed her place behind her podium. The verdict called for Marvin Alexander and Emmett Isaac’s temporary placement in the household of Anne-Marie Joana and Adam Grant, and a prison sentence on account of child abuse and neglect for Karen Eleanor. Abe received a probation as well as a fine, and another court date was to be scheduled at a later date to follow up with both parties, and see if a permanent placement was required or necessary. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house when the court was dismissed and Anne-Marie, Whizzer, Marvin and Emmett went back to the car to drop Marvin off at the hospital. He didn’t leave the woman’s loving embrace for fifteen minutes, and she didn’t seem to mind, stroking his hair and resting her chin atop his head as he sobbed and whispered his thanks over and over again. Leaving her in order to enter Summerhill visibly distressed him, and so Anne-Marie checked in as a visitor, handing her son the car keys to drive himself and Emmett to Highland Ridge just in time for seventh period, and instructed him to come straight back with the car as soon as school let out. 

Months went by, and graduation inched ever nearer, as did Marvin’s date of dismissal. He vowed to plough through and stay strong, because at the end of the tunnel was the one thing he so desperately desired ever since he was young. He wanted to be loved, cared for, held accountable and responsible for. And if that meant just a few months of bliss before he was to pack up for university, then so be it. A number of court dates followed to discuss a multitude of things, such as Karen’s prison sentence or Abe’s probation status. The question of whether or not Anne-Marie would receive legal custody of the boys hung in the air, remaining unanswered for a long and painful stretch of time. But Karen’s sentence was pushed forward, and Abe, despite going to therapy for his drinking and securing the anticipated divorce, was in no fit state to handle children, and so the one thing Anne-Marie had wanted most finally fell into her hands, and it was all she could do to not start crying once more in the courtroom. He’d be safe. At long last, he’d be safe. 

The entire neighbourhood celebrated the day after the final trial. The fathers of Campbell Street were put in charge of decorating the living room for what was sure to be the most raucous party for ten blocks, which proved a challenge for them and an optimal source of entertainment for the children, who watched in amusement as Cordelia’s father George stood precariously on a ladder and attempted to hang up streamers (to no avail, due to his measly height), and Adam was forced to take his place, but only ending up on the floor with a smarting head and backside that came of taking a tumble off the ladder. The night was full of cheery music and dancing, featuring some of Anne-Marie’s siblings, as well as her parents, over video call to congratulate their little girl on her achievements. To them, it seemed only yesterday that she was bustling about the house aged nine to put food on the table for her baby brothers while they were stuck at work. She turned a blind eye against the bottles that had been surreptitiously stolen from the wine closet in the kitchen, and didn’t ask questions when her son and all his friends were on the stairs behaving too curiously to be considered sober. It was easily one of the happiest nights of all their lives. 

The neighbourhood had figured out the truth. It was all starting to come together.

_ fin.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that’s the end of that! wow look at me adding a different end note for fucking once lmao. i’m lowkey a bit nervous, i really really hope this wasn’t disappointing? please do tell me what you think, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated <333
> 
> have yourselves a wonderful day/night, till we meet again!
> 
> \- sammie :)


	26. this epilogue (of our own fable)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> life continues on our beloved campbell street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so.
> 
> it's the last one. 
> 
> i decided to write some form of epilogue, as opposed to five more chapters that would probably take me ages because, as you know all too well, my motivation is a cheeky little bitch and likes to come and go as it pleases. nevertheless, i really hope this doesn't disappoint, and that it's a half-decent for such a rollercoaster of a series. i'd like to thank every person who's taken the time to read this, to everyone that commented their thoughts or much-appreciated words of encouragement. you've made the writing process all the more enjoyable and brought so much joy and validation to a girl with a google docs app and an idea. thank you for sitting through marvin's tragic backstory, and all the angst i've cruelly put you all through. thank you for sticking with me when i kept disappearing off the face of the earth due to lack of motivation. thank you for all your comments and your kudos - i mean it when i say they mean so much to me, and i get so excited to hear what people think whenever i post a chapter. whether you've been around since i started this story in april, or joined our crazy tight-knit family (hehe) later on, i love you and i appreciate you to no end. thank you for giving my story a chance. once again, it means the world that you've got this far. thank you for supporting me and this series. i love you all <333
> 
> also!! shoutout to the super cool friends i made throughout the writing process! looking at you @praisesataan, @passiondied, @jayden_monossyn 👀👀 y'all are iconic and ily!!!
> 
> for the last time in this series, enjoy the fic! till we meet again!
> 
> \- sammie :)
> 
> (now go sign some petitions. black lives matter today, tomorrow, and till the end of time.)
> 
> tw : weight, divorce, alcoholism

On the beloved Campbell Street, life was notably cheerier subsequent to the final court date. The thick, wrathful rainclouds that hung dejectedly over the townhouse rooves had finally parted, leaving in their wake puddles of shock that seemed to linger adamantly in the minds of all that resided there. Nobody could quite grasp the depth of their collective deed, regardless of how much they mulled it over as they went about their lives; the humdrum, routine, everyday lives that now felt alien and incomplete without the stress or paperwork or fierce, unwavering hope that, despite the hurdles they’d undoubtedly encounter on the long and winding path to what was right, they would get there in the end, provided that they stuck together and ensured that not one precious moment wasted away on idleness, when they had a task at hand. The task being overthrowing the tyrannical Karen Feldman’s iron-fisted rule over the rest of her family, and restore peace to the ones that fell victim to it. But they’d done that already. To his relief and delight, Abe’s divorce was approved quickly, and the honest man decided to devote any free hour he could spare to bettering himself, both physically and mentally. He mellowed. Following George Thompson’s instruction, he saw a psychiatrist thrice a week for his drink habit, and educated himself on the ways of the world following the announcement that his son was dating the Andrew boy, disregarding the conservative values his parents had instilled in him from youth. It was a refreshing feeling, being able to think for himself. During his marriage, he felt as though he were suffocating, submerging further and further until his ears filled with water and he couldn’t breathe. He was finally coming back up for air. And holy shit, it was glorious. 

Anne-Marie, too, felt more empowered than ever. After all, she had got a woman thrown in jail. Not a very nice woman, admittedly, but the point still stood, proud and tall and beaming. At night, when she’d sleepily stumble past the bedroom of the only son left that hadn’t yet shipped off to university, en route to her own quarters, she’d grin and loiter in the doorjamb for a handful of paltry, blissful moments, contemplating all that was bright and wholesome and beautiful in their cruel world as she watched the additional blanketed lump, situated in Jack’s old bed, fidget and stir in his undisturbed and unbroken slumber, no longer with a reason to exist in fear. No longer was there anything or anyone to keep him awake at night, reliving traumas fresh or deeply-suppressed. The life of the Price-Browns was one that certainly took a fair amount of getting used to for Marvin after his discharge from Summerhill - he felt daunted by parental affection distributed by her and her husband, and had once lugged the bathroom scale up the steps after dinner out of curiosity as to why he hadn’t had his weekly weigh-in yet. The device of shame went in the trash after that, never to put a number on someone’s worth ever again. 

Fiddler on the Roof was a roaring success. Marvin hadn’t been able to perform alongside his friends, but sat eagerly in the front row beside Anne-Marie, Adam, Estelle and Mendel’s siblings, Emmett, the rest of his friends, and his father (whom the brothers had decided to invite out with them for the evening, after they’d detected a steady improvement in his health and overall wellbeing), cheering on his friend and… boyfriend? Lover? They weren’t sure yet. The point was, the production was of sublime quality, as were all the shows done at Highland Ridge’s actually-funded theatre department, and talent radiated like sunbeams from everyone on and off the stage. Elle’s costume design was of Broadway calibur, and whoever had designed the sets really knew their craft. As for their lead? For somebody who’d only ever been in one show prior to this one, he did not disappoint. The voice lessons, director’s notes, and hours spent rehearsing his lines with someone else or in the mirror had all paid off, and Anne-Marie received countless compliments on her son’s exemplar skills as they all filed out of the auditorium. Mendel, too, performed impeccably, deeming Fiddler his best show yet. Trina’s heart swelled and she grinned broadly in admiration every time he was onstage. The two ditched the cast party, not wanting to bother the poor Denny’s employees, and went to dinner with the people that had come to support them, instead, and it was the perfect ending to a perfect closing night. 

She took the entirety of the Jewatholic Losers shopping for prom outfits as the date began to loom upon them. Cordelia and Charlotte already had theirs sorted, but refused to answer any questions when they were pestered about what their outfits entailed. In true Mendel fashion, the boy selected a suit in a vibrant, jaunty green, complete with a yellow shirt to go underneath, as well as a festive tie that any other person would think too hideous to even be legal. The pair had agreed to coordinate in terms of attire, and so Trina chose a dress in a deep basil, with long mesh sleeves and a flowing skirt hemmed below the knee. Unbeknownst to her, green really did suit her. Marvin’s suit was an appealing shade of Egyptian blue, with a red tie and suspenders to go over his shirt. Ever since he’d worn a pair to the court trial, the boy decided that he rather liked the idea of the contraptions. Whizzer turned the head of everybody in the store, waltzing out of the dressing room in an alluring ebony dress and heels that he could walk surprisingly well in. Out of sheer surprise, Anne-Marie laughed, but wholeheartedly permitted the purchase of the garment, kissing her son on the cheek (while standing on tiptoe, because he towered over her without the heels, which only made matters all the more embarrassing in terms of height difference) and ensuring he knew how dashing he looked. 

Charlotte and Cordelia’s outfits remained a mystery until the day of the event, when they came down the steps at the last second, fingers laced lovingly together, in matching outfits that seemed to center around the theme of strawberries. The former wore a light pink button-down with the fruit patterned all across the fabric in scarlet sequins, paired with white trousers and a suit jacket, while the latter was clad in a dress of the same colour, sequin strawberries littering the flamingo-coloured fabric, and a belt of string tied in a neat bow at the front. Blush was applied all over her cheeks and her nose, causing her to appear slightly as though she had a cold, but neither minded. In fact, everyone rather liked it. Of course, there were the obligatory cringeworthy prom photos, at which Whizzer’s siblings laughed at him for (“Shut up, you went to prom in a Totoro onesie,” the boy had spat at his brother Jack, who promptly zipped his lips). The night was spent dancing, drinking non-alcoholic punch, and screaming the lyrics to the old and nostalgic songs playing over the school loudspeakers. They spent the night at Whizzer’s, marathoning some shitty sitcom while eating junk food, still wearing their prom attire. Emmett had somehow wedged his way into his brother’s lap, and Marvin stroked his curls as he slumbered. With time, the animosity between the brothers began to fade, though there were still numerous moments where they would quarrel out of seemingly nowhere about subjects nobody but them understood. Emmett wasn’t quite forgiven, but Marvin did his best to kindle some form of brotherly respect, and no longer went out of his way to avoid his baby brother. 

After prom came summer break, and bringing with it was the question of where in the world they were all going to college. Everyone decided to keep their choices a secret until their annual end-of-summer gathering at Cordelia’s swimming pool. They had to host it a little earlier that year, because they’d be settled in their dormitories at whatever university they chose to go to by the time the last day of summer vacation rolled around. Before that, however, was their, as per Mendel’s description, “super groovy, uber funky, Jewatholic Losers fam squad grad trip”. To the lesbians’ and Mendel’s chagrin, and the remainder of the group’s relief, the Estellemobile was left at the Rochester airport car park as they all boarded the long and arduous flight to Orlando, Florida. Cordelia made sure to capture as many unflattering in-flight moments on her cheap disposable camera as humanly possible, including but not limited to Marvin resembling a burrito rather closely as he slumbered in his seat, the exact moment that the contents of Trina’s chicken wrap gave way, and her girlfriend choking on a chocolate-covered pretzel. They braved Disney, as well as a multitude of other attractions in the appropriately-named Sunshine State, and the ex-baseball player spent a large portion of his money on the snacks on offer at each one. Everyone was surprised at how he could hold it all down and still go for dinner at the hotel at the end of the day, and secretly placed bets on when his stomach would rebel. When it finally did, Charlotte’s pockets were fifteen dollars fuller, and Whizzer was appalled, but also amused. Many more photos were captured on the other disposable cameras Dee had packed, and she decided to get the one of Mendel realising that his leg was being colonised by fire ants just as the shutter closed, and the others looking visibly alarmed, framed for her college dorm room when they returned. 

Speaking of college, location secrecy proved a challenge, particularly for Mendel, who attempted to wheedle the answers out of all his friends due to his own inability to keep his choice a secret. Nonetheless, he struggled through until the time came for the pool party, when they all wrote down their respective colleges on paper and flipped them over on the count of three, dissolving into giggles and tears when they all figured out that they all would be attending NYU in the fall. Convincing their parents to permit their attendance varied in difficulty for everybody; simple enough for Charlotte, Whizzer, and Marvin, but more of an obstacle for Cordelia and Mendel, and especially hard for the no-nonsense Aronowitz parents. It was somewhat relieving for everyone to know that their tight-knit family would not disband after this summer, and hopefully, if the odds were in their favour, not for a long, long time after that. 

The year had begun with a mysterious girl from down South moving into the only vacant house left, the one that hadn’t been lived in since Cordelia was born, peculiar happenings occurring at the Feldman house that nobody really understood, and Whizzer refusing to acknowledge his deteriorating eyesight, or knowing that he would audition for the school musical and snatch the lead. They all thought the same miserable thought, that this would be their final year together, before parting ways and, to everyone’s dismay, most likely forgetting one another almost entirely. Yet alas, here they were. It was mind-boggling to think that just one year could completely change them as people. However, they had a pretty good feeling that something so meager as distance couldn’t tear them apart. Because when you survived a ghost-riddled forest, a traumatising dodgeball game, an eating disorder, and a court case with your friends by your side? Well, you could get through just about anything. 

  
  


_ fin.  _

  
  
  


_ started 8.4.20 _

_ finished 19.9.20 _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i still can't believe this is over. i really hope you enjoyed this series! i'm sad to be leaving it, but i'm really really (no actually it's a problem) excited for what's to come! sorry to everyone that i bothered about it lmao. catch you on the flipside, and thank you again!


End file.
